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BIOGRAPHIES AND MISCELLANIES 






WASHINGTON IRVING. 



EDITED BY HIS LITERARY EXECUTOR, 

PIERRE M. IRVING- 



PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1871. 



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Untered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18(36, by 

Pierre M. Irving, 

ir the Clerk's Office of tha District Court for the Southern District of New York. 



CONTENTS. 



— • — 

PAGE 

Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent , , .11 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Captain James Lawrence 37 

Lieutenant Burrows. 60 

Commodoke Perry : 70 

Captain David Porter 91 

Thomas Campbell 115 

Washington Allston 143 

Conversations with Talma.. 151 

Margaret Miller Davidson... . 163 

REVIEWS AND MISCELLANIES. 

Robert Treat Paine t 803 

Edwin C Holland 325 

Wheaton's History of the Northmen 339 

Conquest of Granada 378 

Letter to the Editor of " The Knickerbocker." 417 

Sleepy Hollow 425 

National Nomenclature 440 

Desultory Thoughts on Criticism 447 

Communipaw ; \ 453 

Conspiracy of the Cocked Hats 463 

Letter from Granada 471 

The Catskill Mountains 480 



LETTEES OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, Gent 



[The letters under the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle were written at the age 
of nineteen, when the author was a student at law in the office of Josiah Ogden 
Hoffman, and the city he was seeking to amuse by these juvenile productions 
contained scarce sixty-five thousand inhabitants. The series consisted of nine 
contributions to the "Morning Chronicle," a daily paper started by his brother, 
Dr. Peter Irving, his senior by eleven years, on the 1st of October, 1802. The 
introductory letter appeared in its columns on the 15th of the following month, 
and would seem to have been overlooked by the printer who collected and pub- 
lished the others in pamphlet form in 1824, without the author's knowledge. 
This opening letter is now reproduced after the lapse of sixty-four years, and is 
of interest, if in no other respect, as being the first essay in print of a writer after- 
wards so much admired for the graces of his style. The last four letters of the 
series are omitted in deference to the wishes of the author, who marked them as 
"not to be reprinted," when there was question of including the pamphlet of 
Oldstyle papers in a collective edition of his writings. Of the literary merit or 
demerit of these early productions I do not propose to speak. Of the local effect 
of the portion which touches on the drama, Dunlap, in his " History of the 
American Theatre," remarks: "Though always playful, the irritation caused 
was excessive." Meaning of course among the actors, for to the town they 
afforded great entertainment. 

The theatre which was the place of performance at the date of these letters, 
and which offered almost the only intellectual recreation in New York, stood in 
front of the Park, nearly midway between Ann and Beekman Streets. — Ed.] 



LETTERS 

OF 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, Gent 



LETTER I. 

Mr. Editor, — If the observations of an odd old fellow 
are not wholly superfluous, I would thank you to shove them 
into a spare corner of your paper. 

It is a matter of amusement to an uninterested spectator like 
myself, to observe the influence fashion has on the dress and 
deportment of its votaries, and how very quick they fly from 
one extreme to the other. 

A few years since the rage was, — very high crowned hats 
with very narrow brims, tight neckcloth, tight coat, tight jacket, 
tight small-clothes, and shoes loaded with enormous silver 
buckles ; the hair craped, plaited, queued, and powdered ; — in 
short, an air of the greatest spruceness and tightness diffused 
over the whole person. 

The ladies, with their tresses neatly turned up over an im- 
mense cushion : waist a yard long, braced up with stays into 
the smallest compass, and encircled by an enormous hoop ; so 
that the fashionable belle resembled a walking bottle. 

Thus dressed, the lady was seen, with the most bewitching 
languor, reclining on the arm of an extremely attentive beau, 



12 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT 

who, with a long cane, decorated with an enormous tassel, was 
carefully employed in removing every stone, stick, or straw that 
might impede the progress of his tottering companion, whose 
high-heeled shoes just brought the points of her toes to the 
ground. 

What an alteration has a few years produced ! We now be- 
hold our gentlemen, with the most studious carelessness and 
almost slovenliness of dress ; large hat, large coat, large neck- 
cloth, large pantaloons, large boots, and hair scratched into 
every careless direction, lounging along the streets in the most 
apparent listlessness and vacuity of thought ; staring with an 
unmeaning countenance at every passenger, or leaning upon 
the arm of some kind fair one for support, with the other hand 
crammed into his breeches' pocket. Such is the picture of a 
modern beau, — in his dress stuffing himself up to the dimen- 
sions of a Hercules, in his manners affecting the helplessness 
of an invalid. 

The belle who has to undergo the fatigue of dragging along 
this sluggish animal has chosen a character the very reverse, — 
emulating in her dress and actions all the airy lightness of a 
sylph, she trips along with the greatest vivacity. Her laughing 
eye, her countenance enlivened with affability and good-humor, 
inspire with kindred animation every beholder, except the tor- 
pid being by her side, who is either affecting the fashionable 
sang-froid, or is wrapt up in profound contemplation of him- 
self. 

Heavens ! how changed are the manners since I was young ! 
Then, how delightful to contemplate a ball-room,— such bowing, 
such scraping, such complimenting ; nothing but copperplate 
speeches to be heard on both sides ; no walking but in minuet 
measure ; nothing more common than to see half a dozen gen- 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE. GENT. 13 

tlemen knock their heads together in striving who should first 
recover a lady's fan or snuff-box that had fallen. 

But now, our youths no longer aim at the character of pretty 
gentlemen ; their greatest ambition is to be called lazy dogs, 
careless fellows, &c. &c. • Dressed up in the mammoth style, 
our buck saunters into the ball-room in a surtout, hat under 
arm, cane in hand ; strolls round with the most vacant air ; 
stops abruptly before such lady as he may choose to honor with 
his attention ; entertains her with the common slang of the 
day, collected from the conversation of hostlers, footmen, por- 
ters, &c, until his string of smart sayings is run out, and then 
lounges off to entertain some other fair one with the same 
unintelligible jargon. Surely, Mr. Editor, puppyism must have 
arrived to a climax ; it must turn ; to carry it to a greater 
extent seems to me impossible. 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE 
November 15, 1802. 



14 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYXE, GENT. 



LETTER II. 

Sir, — Encouraged by the ready insertion you gave my for* 
mer communication, I have taken the liberty to intrude on you 
a few more remarks. 

Nothing is more intolerable to an old person than innovation 
on old habits. The customs that prevailed in our youth be- 
come clear to us as we advance in years ; and we can no more 
bear to see them abolished than we can to behold the trees cut 
down under which we have sported in the happy days of in- 
fancy. 

Even I myself, who have floated down the stream of life with 
the tide, — who have humored it in all its turnings, who have 
conformed in a great measure to all its fashions, — cannot but 
feel sensible of this prejudice. I often sigh when I draw a 
comparison between the present and the past ; and though I 
cannot but be sensible that, in general, times are altered for 
the better, yet there is something, even in the imperfections 
of the manners Avhich prevailed in my youthful days, that is 
inexpressibly endearing. 

There is nothing that seems more strange and preposterous to 
me than the manner in which modern marriages are conducted. 
The parties keep the matter as secret as if there was something 
disgraceful in the connection. The lady positively denies that 
anything of the kind is to happen ; will laugh at her intended 
husband, and even lay bets against the event, the very day be- 
fore it is to take place. They sneak into matrimony as quietly 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 15 

as possible, and seem to pride themselves on the cunning and 
ingenuity they have displayed in their manoeuvres. 

How different is this from the manners of former times ! I 
recollect when my aunt Barbara was addressed by 'Squire 
Stylish ; nothing was heard of during the whole courtship but 
consultations and negotiations between her friends and rela- 
tives; the matter was considered and reconsidered, and at 
length the time set for a final answer. Never, Mr. Editor, 
shall I forget the awful solemnity of the scene. The whole 
family of the Oldstyles assembled in awful conclave : my aunt 
Barbara dressed out as fine as hands could make her, — high 
cushion, enormous cap, long waist, prodigious hoop, ruffles that 
reached to the end of her fingers, and a gown of flame-colored 
brocade, figured with poppies, roses, and sun-flowers. Never 
did she look so sublimely handsome. The 'Squire entered the 
room with a countenance suited to the solemnity of the occa- 
sion. He was arrayed in a full suit of scarlet velvet, his coat 
decorated with a profusion of large silk buttons, and the skirts 
stiffened with a yard or two of buckram ; a long pig-tailed wig, 
well powdered, adorned his head ; and stockings of deep blue 
silk, rolled over the knees, graced his extremities; the flaps 
of his vest reached to his knee-buckles, and the ends of his 
cravat, tied with the most precise neatness, twisted through 
every button hole. Thus accoutred, he gravely walked into the 
room, with his ivory headed ebony cane in one hand, and gently 
swaying his three-cornered beaver with the other. The gallant 
and fashionable appearance of the 'Squire, the gracefulness and 
dignity of his deportment, occasioned a general smile of com- 
placency through the room ; my aunt Barbara modestly veiled 
her countenance with her fan, but I observed her contemplat- 
ing her admirer with great satisfaction through the sticks. 



16 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

The business was opened with the most formal solemnity, 
but was not long in agitation. The Oldstyles were moderate ; 
their articles of capitulation few ; the 'Squire was gallant, and 
acceded to them all. In short, the blushing Barbara was de- 
livered up to his embraces with due ceremony. Then, Mr. 
Editor, then were the happy times : such oceans of arrack, — * 
such mountains of plum-cake, — such feasting and congratulat- 
ing, — such fiddling and dancing, — ah me ! who can think of 
those days, and not sigh when he sees the degeneracy of the 
present : no eating of cake nor throwing of stockings, — not a 
single skin filled with wine on the joyful occasion, — nor a single 
pocket edified by it but the parson's. 

It is with the greatest pain I see those customs dying away, 
which served to awaken the hospitality and friendship of my 
ancient comrades, — that strewed with flowers the path to the 
altar, and shed a ray of sunshine on the commencement of the 
matrimonial union. 

The deportment of my aunt Barbara and her husband was 
as decorous after marriage as before ; her conduct was always 
regulated by his, — her sentiments ever accorded with his opin- 
ions ; she was always eager to tie on his neckcloth of a morning, 
— to tuck a napkin under his chin at meal-times, — to wrap 
him up warm of a winter's day, and to spruce him up as smart 
as possible of a Sunday. The 'Squire was the most attentive 
and polite husband in the world ; would hand his wife in and 
out of church with the greatest ceremony, — drink her health 
at dinner with particular emphasis, and ask her advice on every 
subject, — though I must confess he invariably adopted his 
own ; — nothing was heard from both sides but dears, sweet 
loves, doves, &c. The 'Squire could never stir out of a winter's 
day, without his wife calling after him from the window to 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 17 

button up his waistcoat carefully. Thus, all things went on 
smoothly ; and my relations Stylish had the name — and, as far 
as I know, deserved it, — of being the most happy and loving 
couple in the world. 

A modern married pair will, no doubt, laugh at all this ; they 
are accustomed to treat one another with the utmost careless- 
ness and neglect. No longer does the wife tuck the napkin 
under her husband's chin, nor the husband attend to heaping 
her plate with dainties ; — no longer do I see those little amus- 
ing fooleries in company where the lady would pat her hus- 
band's cheek, and he chuck her under the chin ; when dears, 
and sweets were as plenty as cookies on a New-year's day. The 
wife now considers herself as totally independent, — will ad- 
vance her own opinions, without hesitation, though directly 
opposite to his, — will carry on accounts of her own, and will 
even have secrets of her own, with which she refuses to entrust 
him. 

Who can read these facts, and not lament with me the de~ 
generacy of the present times ; — what husband is there but 
will look back with regret to the happy days of female sub- 
jection. 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE. 
K^vember 20, 1802. 



18 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 



LETTER III. 

Sir, — There is no place of public amusement of which I am 
so fond as the Theatre. To enjoy this with the greater relish, 
1 go but seldom ; and I find there is no play, however poor or 
ridiculous, from which I cannot derive some entertainment. 

I was very much taken with a play-bill of last week, announc- 
ing, in large capitals, " The Battle of Hexham, or, Days of Old.'' 
Here, said I to myself, will be something grand — Days of Old, 
— my fancy fired at the words. I pictured to myself all the 
gallantry of chivalry. Here, thought I, will be a display of 
court manners and true politeness ; the play will, no doubt, be 
garnished with tilts and tournaments ; and as to those banditti, 
whose names make such a formidable appearance on the bills, 
they will be hung up, every mother's son, for the edification of 
the gallery. 

With such impressions, I took my seat in the pit, and was 
so impatient that I could hardly attend to the music, though I 
found it very good. 

The curtain rose, — out walked the Queen* with great 
majesty ; she answered my ideas : she was dressed well, she 
looked well, and she acted well. The Queen was followed 
by a pretty gentleman, who, from his winking and grinning, 
I took to be the court-fool ; I soon found out my mistake. He 
was a courtier " high in trust," and either general, colonel, or 
something of martial dignity. They talked for some time, 
* Mrs. Whitlock, a sister of Mrs. Siddous. — Ed. 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 19 

though I could not understand the drift of their discourse, 
so I amused myself with eating peanuts. 

In one of the scenes I was diverted with the stupidity of a 
corporal, and his men, who sung a dull song, and talked a great 
deal about nothing ; though I found, by their laughing, there 
was a great deal of fun in the corporal's remarks. What this 
scene had to do with the rest of the piece, I could not com- 
prehend ; I suspect it was a part of some other play, thrust in 
here by accident. 

1 was then introduced to a cavern, where there were several 
hard-looking fellows sitting around a table carousing. They 
told the audience they were banditti. They then sung a gallery 
song, of which I could understand nothing but two lines : — 

" The Welshman lik'd to have been chok'd by a mouse, 
But he pull'd him out by the tail. " 

Just as they had ended this elegant song, their banquet was 
disturbed by the melodious sound of a horn, and in marched a 
portly gentleman,* who, I found, was their captain. After this 
worthy gentleman had fumed his hour out, after he had slapped 
his breast and drawn his sword half a dozen times, the act 
ended. 

In the course of the play, I learnt that there had been, or 
was, or would be, a battle ; but how, or when, or where, I could 
not understand. The banditti once more made their appear- 
ance, and frightened the wife of the portly gentleman, who was 
dressed in man's clothes, and was seeking her husband. I could 
not enough admire the dignity of her deportment, the sweet- 
ness of her countenance, and the unaffected gracefulness of her 

* Hodgkinson, a versatile actor who filled all parts, from Falstaff to a Harle- 
quin. — Ed 



20 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

action ; * but who the captain really was, or why he ran away 
from his spouse, I could not understand. However, they 
seemed very glad to find one another again ; and so at last the 
play ended, by the falling of the curtain. 

I wish the manager would use a drop-scene at the close of 
the acts ; we might then always ascertain the termination of 
the piece by the green curtain. On this occasion, I was in- 
debted to the polite bows of the actors for this pleasing infor- 
mation. I cannot say that I was entirely satisfied with the play, 
but I promised myself ample entertainment in the afterpiece, 
which was called the " Tripolitan Prize." Now, thought I, we 
shall have some sport for our money ; we will, no doubt, see a 
few of those Tripolitan scoundrels spitted like turkeys for our 
amusement. "Well, sir, the curtain rose — the trees waved 
in front of the stage, and the sea rolled in the rear ; all things 
looked very pleasant and smiling. Presently I heard a bust- 
ling behind the scenes, — here, thought I, comes a band of fierce 
Tripolitans, with whiskers as long as my arm. No such thing ; 
they were only a party of village masters and misses taking a 
walk for exercise, — and very pretty behaved young gentry they 
were, I assure you ; but it was cruel in the manager to dress 
them in buckram, as it deprived them entirely of the use of 
their limbs. They arranged themselves very orderly on each 
side of the stage, and sung something, doubtless very affecting, 
for they all looked pitiful enough. By and by came up a most 
tremendous storm : the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, 
and the rain fell in torrents ; however, our pretty rustics stood 
gaping quietly at one another/until they must have been wet to 
the skin. I was surprised at their torpidity, till I found they were 
each one afraid to move first, for fear of being laughed at for 

* Mrs. Johnson, a great favorite with the author and the public. 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 21 

their awkwardness. How they got off T do not recollect ; but 
I advise the manager, in a similar case, to furnish every one 
with a trap-door, through which to make his exit. Yet this 
would deprive the audience of much amusement ; for nothing 
can be more laughable than to see a body of guards with their 
spears, or courtiers with their long robes, get across the stage 
at our theatre. 

Scene passed after scene. In vain I strained my eyes to 
catch a glimpse of a Mahometan phiz. I once heard a great 
bellowing behind the scenes, and expected to see a strapping 
Mussulman come bouncing in ; but was miserably disappointed, 
on distinguishing his voice, to find out by his swearing that 
he was only a Christian. In he came, — an American navy 
officer, — worsted stockings, olive velvet small-clothes, scarlet 
vest, pea-jacket, and gold-laced hat — dressed quite in char- 
acter. I soon found out, by his talk, that he was an American 
prize-master ; that, returning through the Mediterranean with 
his Tripolitan prize, he was driven by a storm on the coast of 
England. The honest gentleman seemed, from his actions, to 
be rather intoxicated ; which I could account for in no other 
way than his having drank a great deal of salt-water, as he 
swam ashore. 

Several following scenes were taken up with hallooing and 
huzzaing, between the captain, his crew, and the gallery, with sev- 
eral amusing tricks of the captain and his son, — a very funny, 
mischievous little fellow. Then came the cream of the joke : 
the captain wanted to put to sea, and the young fellow, who had 
fallen desperately in love, to stay ashore. Here was a contest 
between love and honor; such piping of eyes, such blowing 
of noses, such slapping of pocket-holes ! But Old Junk was 
inflexible, — What! an American tar desert his duty ! (three 
cheers from the gallery,) impossible ! American tars forever!.! 



22 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

True blue will never stain ! ! &c. &c. (a continual thundering 
among the gods.) Here was a scene of distress ; here was 
bathos. The author seemed as much puzzled to know how to 
dispose of the young tar as Old Junk was. It would not do to 
leave an American seaman on foreign ground, nor would it do 
to separate him from his mistress. 

Scene the last opened. It seems that another Tripolitan 
cruiser had bore down on the prize, as she lay about a mile off 
shore. How a Barbary corsair had got in this part of the world, 
— whether she had been driven there by the same storm, or 
whether she was cruising to pick up a few English first-rates, I 
could not learn. However, here she was. Again were we con- 
ducted to the sea-shore, where we found all the village gentry, in 
their buckram suits, ready assembled to be entertained with the 
rare show of an American and Tripolitan engaged yard-arm 
and yard-arm. The battle was conducted with proper decency 
and decorum, and the Tripolitan very politely gave in, — as 
it would be indecent to conquer in the face of an American 
audience. 

After the engagement the crew came ashore, joined with the 
captain and gallery in a few more huzzas, and the curtain fell. 
How Old Junk, his son, and his son's sweetheart, settled it, I 
could not discover. 

I was somewhat puzzled to understand the meaning and ne 
cessity of this engagement between the ships, till an honest old 
countryman at my elbow said, he supposed this was the Battle 
of Hexham, as he recollected no fighting in the first piece. 
With this explanation I was perfectly satisfied. 

My remarks upon the audience, I shall postpone to another 

opportunity. 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE. 
December 1, 1802. 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 23 



LETTER IV. 

Sir, — My last communication mentioned my visit to the 
theatre ; the remarks it contained were chiefly confined to the 
play and the actors. I shall now extend them to the audience, 
who, I assure you, furnish no inconsiderable part of the enter- 
tainment. 

As I entered the house some time before the curtain rose, I 
had sufficient leisure to make some observations. I was much 
amused with the waggery and humor of the gallery, which, by 
the way, is kept in excellent order by the constables who are 
stationed there. The noise in this part of the house is some- 
what similar to that which prevailed in Noah's ark ; for we have 
an imitation of the whistles and yells of every kind of animal. 
This, in some measure, compensates for the want of music, as 
the gentlemen of our orchestra are very economic of their 
favors. Somehow or another, the anger of the gods seemed to 
be aroused all of a sudden, and they commenced a discharge of 
apples, nuts, and gingerbread, on the heads of the honest folks 
in the pit, who had no possibility of retreating from this new 
kind of thunderbolts. I can't say but I was a little irritated at 
being saluted, aside of my head, with a rotten pippin ; and was 
going to shake my cane at them, but was prevented by a decent- 
looking man behind me, who informed me that it was useless to 
threaten or expostulate. " They are only amusing themselves a 
little at our expense," said he ; " sit down quietly and bend your 
back to it." My kind neighbor was interrupted by a hard green 



2 1 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

apple that hit him between the shoulders, — he made a wry 
face, but knowing it was all a joke, bore the blow like a philos- 
opher. I soon saw the wisdom of this determination : a stray 
thunderbolt happened to light on the head of a little sharp- 
faced Frenchman, dressed in a white coat and small cocked hat, 
who sat two or three benches ahead of me, and seemed to be an 
irritable little animal. Monsieur was terribly exasperated ; he 
jumped upon his seat, shook his fist at the gallery, and swore 
violently in bad English. This was all nuts to his merry per- 
secutors ; their attention was wholly turned on him, and he 
formed their target for the rest of the evening. 

I found the ladies in the boxes, as usual, studious to please ; 
their charms were set off to the greatest advantage ; each box 
was a little battery in itself, and they all seemed eager to outdo 
each other in the havoc they spread around. An arch glance 
in one box was rivalled by a smile in another, that smile by a 
simper in a third, and in a fourth a most bewitching languish 
carried all before it. 

I was surprised to see some persons reconnoitering the com- 
pany through spy-glasses ; and was in doubt whether these ma- 
chines were used to remedy deficiencies of vision, or whether 
this was another of the eccentricities of fashion. Jack Stylish 
has since informed me, that glasses were lately all the go ; 
" though hang it," says Jack, " it is quite out at present ; we used 
to mount our glasses in great snuff, but since so many tough 
jockeys have followed the lead, the bucks have all cut the 
custom." I give you, Mr. Editor, the account in my dashing 
cousin's own language. It is from a vocabulary I do not well 
understand. 

I was considerably amused by the queries of the countryman 
mentioned in my last, who was now making his first visit to the 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 25 

theatre. He kept constantly applying to me for information, 
and I readily communicated, as far as my own ignorance would 
permit. 

As this honest man was casting his eye round the house, his 
attention was suddenly arrested. " And pray, who are these ? " 
said he, pointing to a cluster of young fellows. " These, I sup- 
pose, are the critics, of whom I have heard so much. They 
have, no doubt, got together to communicate their remarks, and 
compare notes ; these are the persons through whom the au- 
dience exercise their judgments, and by whom they are told 
when they are to applaud or, to hiss. Critics! ha, ha! my 
dear sir, they trouble themselves as little about the elements of 
criticism, as they do about other departments of science and 
belles-lettres. These are the beaux of the present day, who 
meet here to lounge away an idle hour, and play off their little 
impertinencies for the entertainment of the public. They no 
more regard the merits of the play, nar of the actors, than my 
cane. They even strive to appear inattentive ; and I have seen 
one of them perched on the front of the box with his back to 
the stage, sucking the head of his stick and staring vacantly at 
the audience, insensible to the most interesting specimens of 
scenic representation, though the tear of sensibility was trem» 
bling in every eye around him. I have heard that some have 
even gone so far in search of amusement as to propose a game 
of cards in the theatre, during the performance." The eyes of my 
neighbor sparkled at this information — his cane shook in his 
hand, the word "puppies" burst from his lips. " Nay," says I, "I 
don't give this for absolute fact ; my cousin Jack, was, I believe, 
quizzing me (as he terms it) when he gave me the information." 
" But you seem quite indignant," said I, to the decent-looking 
man in my rear. It was from him the exclamation came ; the 



20 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

honest countryman was gazing in gaping wonder on some new 
attraction. " Believe me," said I, " if you had them daily be- 
fore your eyes, you would get quite used to them." " Used to 
them," replied he ; " how is it possible for people of sense to 
relish such conduct r " " Bless you, my friend, people of sense 
have nothing to do with it ; they merely endure it in silence. 
These young gentlemen live in an indulgent age. "When I was 
a young man, such tricks and follies were held in proper con- 
tempt." Here I went a little too far ; for, upon better recollec- 
tion, I must own that a lapse of years has produced but little 
alteration in this department of folly and impertinence. " But 
do the ladies admire these manners ! " " Truly, I am not as 
conversant in female circles as formerly ; but I should think it 
a poor compliment to my fair countrywomen, to suppose them 
pleased with the stupid stare and cant phrases with which these 
votaries of fashion add affected to real ignorance." 

Our conversation was here interrupted by the ringing of a 
bell. " Now for the play," said my companion. " No," said I, " it is 
only for the musicians." These worthy gentlemen then came 
crawling out of their holes, and began, with very solemn and 
important phizzes, strumming and tuning their instruments in 
the usual style of discordance, to the great entertainment of 
the audience. " What tune is that ? " asked my neighbor, cover- 
ing his ears. * This," said I, " is no tune ; it is only a pleasing 
symphony, witn which we are regaled, as a preparative." For 
my part, though I admire the effect of contrast, I think they 
might as well play it in their cavern under the stage. The bell 
rung a second time, — and then began the tune in reality ; but 
I could not help observing, that the countryman was more di- 
verted with the queer grimaces and contortions of counten- 
ance exhibited by the musicians, than their melody. What I 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 27 

heard of the music, I liked very well ; (though I was told by 
one of my neighbors, that the same pieces have been played 
every night for these three years ;) but it was often overpowered 
by the gentry in the gallery, who vociferated loudly for " Moll in 
the Wad," " Tally ho the Grinders," and several other airs more 
suited to their tastes. 

I observed that every part of the house has its different de- 
partment. The good folks of the gallery have all the trouble 
of ordering the music ; ( their directions, however, are not more 
frequently followed than they deserve.) The mode by which 
they issue their mandates is stamping, hissing, roaring, whist- 
ling ; and, when the musicians are refractory, groaning in ca- 
dence. They also have the privilege of demanding a bow from 
John, (by which name they designate every servant at the 
theatre, who enters to move a table or snuff a candle ;) and 
of detecting those cunning dogs who peep from behind the 
curtain. 

By the by, my honest friend was much puzzled about the 
curtain itself. He wanted to know why that carpet was hung 
up in the theatre ? I assured him it was no carpet, but a very 
fine curtain. "And what, pray, may be the meaning of that gold 
head, with the nose cut off, that I see in front of it ? " " The 
meaning, — why, really, I can't tell exactly, — though my 
cousin, Jack Stylish, says there is a great deal of meaning in 
it. But surely you like the design of the curtain ? " " The de- 
sign, — why really I can see no design about it, unless it is 
to be brought down about our ears by the weight of those gold 
heads, and that heavy cornice with which it is garnished." I 
began now to be uneasy for the credit of our curtain, and was 
afraid he would perceive the mistake of the painter, in putting 
a harp in the middle of the curtain and calling it a mirror ; but 



28 'F.TTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

his attention was happily called away by the candle-grease 
from the chandelier, over the centre of the pit, dropping on 
his clothes. This he loudly complained of, and declared his 
coat was bran-new. " Pooh, my friend ! " said I ; "we must 
put up with a few trifling inconveniences, when in the pursuit 
of pleasure." "True," said he ; " but I think I pay pretty dear 
for it : — first, to give six shillings at the door, and then to 
have my head battered with rotten apples, and my coat spoiled 
by candle-grease ; by and by I shall have my other clothes 
dirtied by sitting down, as I perceive everybody mounted on 
the benches. I wonder if they could not see as well if they 
were all to stand upon the floor." 

Here I could no longer defend our customs, for I could 
scarcely breathe while thus surrounded by a host of strapping 
fellows, standing with their dirty boots on the seats of the 
benches. The little Frenchman, who thus found a temporary 
shelter from the missive compliments of his gallery friends, was 
the only person benefited. At last the bell again rung, and 
the cry of " Down, down, — hats off," was the signal for the 
commencement of the play. 

If, Mr. Editor, the garrulity of an old fellow is not tiresome, 
and you choose to give this view of a New- York Theatre a 
place in your paper, you may, perhaps, hear further from your 
friend, 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE. 

Decemcf.p 3. 1802. 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE. GENT. 2tf 



LETTER V. 

Sir, — I shall now conclude my remarks on the Theatre. 
which I am afraid you will think are spun out to an unreason- 
able length ; for this I can give no other excuse, than that 
it is the privilege of old folks to be tiresome, and so I shall 
proceed. 

I had chosen a seat in the pit, as least subject to annoyance 
from a habit of talking loud that has lately crept into our 
theatres, and which particularly prevails in the boxes. In old 
times, people went to the theatre for the sake of the play and 
acting ; but I now find that it begins to answer the purpose of 
a coffee-house, or fashionable lounge, where many indulge in 
loud conversation, without any regard to the pain it inflicts on 
their more attentive neighbors. As this conversation is gen- 
erally of the most trifling kind, it seldom repays the latter for 
the inconvenience they suffer, of not hearing one half of the 
play. I found, however, that I had not much bettered my sit- 
uation ; but that every part of the house has its share of evils. 
Besides those I had already suffered, I was yet to undergo a 
new kind of torment. I had got in the neighborhood of a very 
obliging personage, who had seen the play before, and was 
kindly anticipating every scene, and informing those that were 
about him what was to take place, — to prevent, I suppose, any 
disagreeable surprise to which they would otherwise have been 
liable. Had there been anything of a plot to the play, this 
might have been a serious inconvenience ; but as the piece was 



3<> LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

entirely innocent of everything of the kind, it was not of so 
much importance. As I generally contrive to extract amuse- 
ment from everything that happens, I now entertained myself 
with remarks on the self-important air with which he delivered 
his information, and the distressed and impatient looks of his 
unwilling auditors. I also observed that he made several mis- 
takes in the course of his communications. " Now you '11 see,'* 
said he, " the queen in all her glory, surrounded with her 
courtiers, fine as fiddles, and ranged on each side of the stage 
like rows of pewter dishes." On the contrary, we were presented 
with the portly gentleman and his ragged regiment of banditti. 
Another time he promised us a regale from the fool ; but we 
were presented with a very fine speech from the queen's grin- 
ning counsellor. 

My country neighbor was exceedingly delighted with the 
performance, though he did not half the time understand 
what was going forward. He sat staring, with open mouth, at 
the portly gentleman* as he strode across the stage and in fu- 
rious rage drew his sword on the white lion. " By George, but 
that 's a brave fellow," said he, when the act was over ; " that 's 
what you call first-rate acting, I suppose." 

" Yes," said I, " it is what the critics of the present day ad- 
mire, but it is not altogether what I like. You should have 
seen an actor of the old school do this part ; he would have 
given it to some purpose ; you would have had such ranting 
and roaring, and stamping and storming ; to be sure, this hon- 
est man gives us a bounce now and then in the true old style, 
but in the main he seems to prefer walking on plain ground, to 
trutting on the stilts used by the tragic heroes of my day." 

This is the chief of what passed between me and my coin- 
* Hodgkinson. 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 31 

pauion during the play and entertainment, except an observa- 
tion of his, ' 4 that it would be well if the manager was to drill his 
nobility and gentry now and then, to enable them to go through 
their evolutions with more grace and spirit." This put me in 
mind of something my cousin Jack said to the same purpose, 
though he went too far in his zeal for reformation. He de- 
clared, " he wished sincerely one of the critics of the day would 
take all the slab-shabs of the theatre, (like cats in a bag,) and 
twig the whole bunch." I can't say but I like Jack's idea well 
enough, though it is rather a severe one. 

He might have remarked another fault that prevails among 
our performers, (though I don't know whether it occurred this 
evening,) of dressing for the same piece in the fashions of dif- 
ferent ages and countries, so that while one actor is strutting 
about the stage in the cuirass and helmet of Alexander, 
another, dressed up in a gold-laced coat and bag wig, with a 
chapeau de bras under his arm, is taking snuff in the fashion of 
one or two centuries back, and perhaps a third figures in Su- 
warrow boots, in the true style of modern buckism. 

" But what, pray, has become of the noble Marquis of Mon- 
tague, and Earl of Warwick ? " said the countryman, after the 
entertainment was concluded. " Their names make a great ap- 
pearance on the bill, but I do not recollect having seen them in 
the course of the evening." " Very true, — I had quite forgot 
those worthy personages ; but I suspect they have been behind 
the scenes, smoking a pipe with our other friends incog., the 
Tripolitans. We must not be particular now-a-days, my friend. 
When we are presented with a battle of Hexham without fight- 
ing, and a Tripolitan afterpiece without even a Mahometan 
whisker, we need not be surprised at having an invisible mar- 
quis or two thrown into the bargain." " But what is your opin- 



32 LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 

ion of the house ? " said I ; " don't you think it a very sub- 
stantial, solid-looking building, both inside and out ? Observe 
what a fine effect the dark coloring of the wall has upon the 
white faces of the audience, which glare like the stars in a dark 
night. And then, what can be more pretty than the paintings in 
the front of the boxes, — those little masters and misses suck- 
ing their thumbs, and making mouths at the audience ? " 

" Very fine, upon my word. And what, pray, is the use of 
that chandelier, as you call it, that is hung up among the clouds, 
and has showered down its favors upon my coat ? " 

" Oh ! that is to illumine the heavens, and set oifto advantage 
the little periwig'd Cupids, tumbling head over heels, with 
which the painter has decorated the dome. You see we have 
no need of the chandelier below, as here the house is perfectly 
well illuminated ; but I think it would have been a great saving 
of candle-light if the manager had ordered the painter, among 
his other pretty designs, to paint a moon up there, or if he was 
to hang up that sun with whose intense light our eyes were 
greatly annoyed in the beginning of the afterpiece." 

" But don't you think, after all, there is rather a — sort of a 
— kind of a heavyishness about the house ? Don't you think 
it has a little of an under-groundish appearance ? " 

To this I could make no answer. I must confess I have often 
thought myself the house had a dungeon-like look ; so I pro- 
posed to him to make our exit, as the candles were putting out, 
and we should be left in the dark. Accordingly, groping our 
way through the dismal subterraneous passage that leads from 
the pit, and passing through the ragged bridewell-looking ante- 
chamber, we once more emerged into the purer air of the park, 
when bidding my honest countryman good-night, I repaired 
home, considerably pleased with the amusements of the evening 



LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 33 

Thus, Mr. Editor, have I given you an account of the chief 
incidents that occurred in ray visit to the Theatre. I have 
shown you a few of its accommodations and its imperfections. 
Those who visit it more frequently, may be able to give you a 
better statement. 

I shall conclude with a few words of advice for the benefit 
of every department of it. I would recommend — 

To the actors — less etiquette, less fustian, less buckram. 

To the orchestra — new music, and more of it. 

To the pit — patience, clean benches, and umbrellas. 

To the boxes, — less affectation, less noise, less coxcombs. 

To the gallery — less grog, and better constables ; — and, 

To the whole house, inside and out, a total reformation. 

And so much for the Theatre. 

JONATHAN OLDSTYLt 

December 11, 1802. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 



[The Naval Biographies which follow, were contributed to the " Analectic 
Magazine," a monthly periodical, published in Philadelphia by the late Moses 
Thomas of that city, and edited by the author during the years 3813, 1814; the 
period of the war with Great Britain, in which the national character was so 
gallantly sustained on the ocean. 

The " Memoir of Thomas Campbell," the Scottish poet, was originally prefixed 
to an American edition of his poems, in 1810, and was transferred to the " Ana- 
lectic Magazine " in March, 1815, revised and enlarged. To this copy, which is 
the one here introduced, is appended a letter from Mr. Irving respecting Camp- 
bell, written after the poet's death. 

The notices of Allston and Talma were contributions, the first to " Duyck- 
jnck's Cyclopaedia of American Literature," the last to the ''Knickerbocker Gal- 
lery," the title of a collection of pieces from various hands, published in 1855. — 
Ed.] 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

To speak feelingly, yet temperately, of the merits of those 
who have bravely fought and gloriously fallen in the service of 
their country, is one of the most difficult tasks of the biographer. 
Filled with admiration of their valor, and sorrow for their fate, 
we feel the impotency of our gratitude, in being able to reward 
such great sacrifices with nothing but empty applause. We are 
apt, therefore, to be hurried into a degree of eulogium, which, 
however sincere and acknowledged at the time, may be re- 
garded as extravagant by the dispassionate eye of after-years. 

We feel more particularly this difficulty, in undertaking to 
give the memoirs of one, whose excellent qualities and gallant 
deeds are still vivid in our recollection, and whose untimely end 
has excited, in an extraordinary degree, the sympathies of his 
countrymen. Indeed, the popular career of this youthful hero 
has been so transient, yet dazzling, as almost to prevent sober 
investigation. Scarce had we ceased to rejoice in his victory, 
before we were called on to deplore his loss. He passed before 
the public eye like a star, just beaming on it for a moment, and 
falling in the midst of his brightness. 

Captain James Lawrence was born on the 1st of October, 
1781, at Burlington, in the State of New Jersey. He was the 
2* 



38 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

youngest son of John Lawrence, Esq. an eminent counsellor at 
law of that place. Within a few weeks after his birth his 
mother died, and the charge of him devolved on his sisters, to 
whom he ever showed the warmest gratitude for the tender 
care they took of his infant years. He early evinced that excel- 
lence of heart by which he was characterized through life ; 
he was a dutiful and affectionate child, mild in his disposition, 
and of the most gentle au d engaging manners. He was scarce 
twelve years of age when he expressed a decided partiality for 
a seafaring life ; but his father disapproving of it, and wishing 
him to prepare for the profession of the law, his strong sense of 
duty induced him to acquiesce. lie went through the common 
branches of education, at a grammar-school, at Burlington, 
with much credit to himself and satisfaction to his tutors. The 
pecuniary misfortunes of his father prevented his receiving a 
finished education, and between the age of thirteen and fourteen 
he commenced the study of the law with his brother, the late 
John Lawrence, Esq. who then resided at Woodbury. He 
remained for two years in this situation, vainly striving to ac- 
commodate himself to pursuits wholly repugnant to his taste 
and inclinations. The dry studies of statutes and reporters, the 
technical rubbish, and dull routine of a lawyer's office, were 
little calculated to please an imagination teeming with the ad- 
ventures, the wonders, and variety of the seas. At length, his 
father being dead, and his strong predilection for the roving 
life of a sailor being increased by every attempt to curb it, his 
brother yielded to his solicitations, and placed him under the 
care of Mr. Griscomb, at Burlington, to acquire the principles 
of navigation and naval tactics. He remained with him for 
three months, when, his intention of applying for a situation in 
the navy being generally known, several of the most distin- 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 39 

guished gentlemen of the State interested themselves in his 
behalf, and wrote to the Navy Department. The succeeding 
mail brought him a midshipman's warrant ; and between the 
age of sixteen and seventeen he entered the service of his 
country. 

His first cruise was to the West Indies in the ship Ganges, 
commanded by Captain Thomas Tingey. In this and several 
subsequent cruises, no opportunity occurred to call forth par- 
ticular services; but the attention and intelligence which he 
uniformly displayed in the discharge of his duties, the correct- 
ness of his deportment, and the suavity of his manners, gained 
him the approbation of his commanders, and rendered him a 
favorite with his associates and inferiors. 

When the war was declared against Tripoli, he was promoted 
to a lieutenancy, and appointed to the command of the schooner 
Enterprise. While in this command he volunteered his services 
in the hazardous exploit of destroying the frigate Philadelphia, 
and accompanied Decatur as his first lieutenant. The brilliant 
success of that enterprise is well known ; and for the gallantry 
and skill displayed on the occasion, Decatur was made post- 
captain, while Lawrence, in common with the other officers and 
crew, were voted by Congress two months' extra pay, — a sordid 
and paltry reward, which he immediately declined. 

The harbor of Tripoli appears to have been the school of 
our naval heroes. In tracing the histories of those who have 
lately distinguished themselves, we are always led to the coast 
of Barbary as the field of their first experience and young 
achievement. The concentration of our little navy at this point, 
soon after its formation, has had a happy effect upon its char- 
acter and fortunes. The officers were most of them young in 
years, and young in arms, full of life and spirits, and enthu- 



40 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

siasm. Such is the time to form generous impressions and 
strong attachments. It was there they grew together in habits 
of mutual confidence and friendship ; and to the noble emulation 
of so many young minds newly entering upon an adventurous 
profession, may be attributed that enterprising spirit and de- 
fiance of danger that has ever since distinguished our navy. 

After continuing in the Mediterranean about three years and 
a half, Lawrence returned to the United States with Commodore 
Preble, and was again sent out on that station, as commander 
of Gun-boat No. 6, in which he remained for sixteen months. 
Since that time he has acted as first lieutenant of the Constitu- 
tion, and as commander of the Vixen, Wasp, Argus, and Hornet. 
In 1808 he was married to a daughter of Mr. Montaudevert, a 
respectable merchant of New York, to whom he made one of 
the kindest and most affectionate of husbands. 

At the commencement of the present war he sailed in the 
Hornet sloop-of-war, as part of the squadron that cruised under 
Commodore Rodgers. While absent on this cruise Lieutenant 
Morris was promoted to the rank of post-captain, for his bravery 
and skill as first lieutenant of the Constitution in her action 
with the Guerriere. This appointment, as it raised him two 
grades, and placed him over the heads of older officers, gave 
great offence to many of the navy, who could not brook that 
the regular rules of the service should be infringed. It was 
thought particularly unjust, as giving him rank above Law- 
rence, who had equally distinguished himself as first lieutenant 
of Decatur, in the destruction of the frigate Philadelphia, and 
who, at present, was but master and commander. 

On returning from his cruise Captain Lawrence, after con- 
sulting with Commodores Rodgers and Bainbridge, and with 
other experienced gentlemen of the navy, addressed a memorial 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 4) 

to the Senate and a letter to the Secretary of the Navy, where- 
in, after the fullest acknowledgments of the great merits and 
services of Captain Morris, he remonstrated in the most tem- 
perate and respectful, but firm and manly language, on the im- 
propriety of his p/omotion, as being contrary to the rules of 
naval precedence, and particularly hard as it respected himself 
At the same time, he frankly mentioned that he should be com- 
pelled, however reluctant, to leave the service, if thus im- 
properly outranked. 

The reply of the Secretary was singularly brief; barely ob- 
serving, that if he thought proper to leave the service without 
a cause, there would still remain heroes and patriots to support 
the honor of the flag. There was a laconic severity in this 
reply calculated to cut a man of feeling to the heart, and which 
ought not to have been provoked by the fair and candid remon- 
strance of Lawrence. 

Where men are fighting for honor rather than profit, the 
utmost delicacy should be observed towards their high-toned 
feelings. Those complaints which spring from wounded pride, 
and the jealousy of station, should never be regarded lightly. 
The best soldiers are ever most tenacious of their rank ; for it 
cannot be expected that he who hazards everything for distinc- 
tion, will be careless of it after it is attained. Fortunately, 
Lawrence had again departed on a cruise before this letter 
arrived, which otherwise might have driven from the service 
one of our most meritorious officers. 

This second cruise was in company with Commodore Bain- 
bridge, who commanded the Constitution. While cruising off 
the Brazils they fell in with the Bonne Citoyenne, a British 
ship-of-war, having on board a large amount of specie, and 
rhased her into St. Salvadore. Notwithstanding that she was 



4- CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

a larger vessel, and of a greater force in guns and men than 
the Hornet, yet Captain Lawrence sent a challenge to her com 
mander, Captain Green, pledging his honor that neither the 
Constitution nor any other American vessel should interfere. 
Commodore Bainbridge made a similar pledge on his own part ; 
but the British commander declined the combat, alleging that 
though perfectly satisfied that the event of such a rencounter 
would be favorable to his ship, " yet he was equally convinced 
that Commodore Bainbridge could not swerve so much from 
the paramount duty he owed his country as to become an in- 
active spectator, and see a ship belonging to the very squadron 
under his orders, fall into the hands of the enemy." 

To make him easy on this point, Commodore Bainbridge left 
the Hornet four days together off the harbor in which the Bonne 
Citoyenne laid, and from which she could discover that he was 
not within forty miles of it. He afterwards went into the harbor 
and remained there three days, where he might at any time 
have been detained twenty-four hours, at the request of Captain 
Green, if disposed to combat the Hornet. At length the Con- 
stitution went off altogether, leaving Lawrence to blockade the 
Bonne Citoyenne, which he did for nearly a month, Captain 
Green not thinking proper to risk an encounter. It is possible 
that having an important public trust in charge, and sailing 
under particular orders, he did not think himself authorized to 
depart from the purpose of his voyage, and risk his vessel in a 
contest for mere individual reputation. But if such were his 
reasons, he should have stated them when he refused to accept 
the challenge. • 

On the 24th of January Captain Lawrence was obliged tc 
shift his crui sing-ground, by the arrival of the Montagu, 74. 
which had sailed from Rio Janeiro for the express purpose of 



CAPTAIN JAMES LA WHENCE. 43 

relieving the Bonne Gitoyenne and a British packet of 12 guns, 
which likewise lay at St. Salvaclore. At length, on the morn- 
ing of the 24th February, when cruising off Demarara, the 
Hornet fell in with the British brig Peacock, Captain Peake, a 
vessel of about equal force. The contest commenced within 
half-pistol shot, and so tremendous was the fire of the Ameri- 
cans, that in less than fifteen minutes the enemy surrendered, 
and made signal of distress, being in a sinking condition. Her 
mainmast shortly went by the board, and she was left such an 
absolute wreck, that, notwithstanding every exertion was made 
to keep her afloat until the prisoners could be removed, she 
sunk with thirteen of her crew, and three brave American tars, 
who thus nobly perished in relieving a conquered foe. The 
slaughter on board of the Peacock was very severe ; among the 
slain was found the body of her commander, Captain Peake. 
He was twice wounded in the course of the action ; the last 
wound proved fatal. His body was wrapped in the flag of his 
vessel, and laid in the cabin to sink with her, — a shroud and 
sepulchre worthy so brave a sailor. 

During the battle the British brig UEspeigle, mounting 15 
two and thirty pound carronades and two long nines, lay at an- 
chor, about six miles in shore. Being apprehensive that she 
would beat out to the assistance of her consort the utmost ex- 
ertions were made to put the Hornet in a situation for action, 
and in about three hours she was in complete preparation, but 
the enemy did not think proper to make an attack. 

The conduct of Lawrence towards his prisoners was such, as, 
we are proud to say, has uniformly characterized the officers 
of our navy. They have ever displayed the liberality and scru- 
pulous delicacy of generous minds towards those whom the for- 
tune of war has thrown in their power ; and thus have Avon by 



4i CArTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

their magnanimity those whom they have conquered by theii 
valor. The officers of the Peacock were so affected by the 
treatment they received from Captain Lawrence, that on their 
arrival at New York they made a grateful acknowledgment 
in the public papers. To use their own expressive phrase, 
'• they ceased to consider themselves prisoners." Nor must we 
omit to mention a circumstance highly to the honor of the brave 
tars of the Hornet. Finding that the crew of the Peacock had 
lost all their clothing by the sudden sinking of the vessel, they 
made a subscription, and from their own wardrobes supplied 
each man with two shirts, and a blue jacket and trowsers. Such 
may rough sailors be made, when they have before them the 
example of high-minded men. They are beings of but little 
reflection, open to the impulse and excitement of the moment ; 
and it depends in a great measure upon their officers, whether, 
under a Lawrence, they shall ennoble themselves by generous 
actions, or, under a Cockburn, be hurried away into scenes of 
unpremeditated atrocity. 

On returning to this country Captain Lawrence was received 
with great distinction and applause, and various public bodies 
conferred on him peculiar tokens of approbation. While absent 
the rank of post-captain had been conferred on him, and shortly 
after his return he received a letter from the Secretary of the 
Navy, offering him the command of the frigate Constitution, 
provided neither Captains Porter or Evans applied for it, they 
being older officers. Captain Lawrence respectfully declined 
this conditional appointment, for satisfactory reasons which he 
stated to the Secretary. He then received an unconditional 
appointment to that frigate, and directions to superintend the 
Navy Yard at New York in the absence of Capt. Ludlow. The 
next day, to his great surprise and chagrin, he received counter- 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 4f> 

orders, with instructions to take command of the frigate Chesa- 
peake, then lying at Boston, nearly ready for sea. This appoint- 
ment was particularly clisagreable to him. He was prejudiced 
against the Chesapeake, both from her being considered the 
worst ship in our navy, and from having been in a manner dis- 
graced in the affair with the Leopard. This last circumstance 
had acquired her the character of an unlucky ship, — the worst 
of stigmas among sailors, who are devout believers in good and 
bad luck ; and so detrimental was it to this vessel, that it has 
been found difficult to recruit crews for her. 

The extreme repugnance that Capt. Lawrence felt to this 
appointment induced him to write to the Secretary of the Navy, 
requesting to be continued in the command of the Hornet. 
Besides, it was his wish to remain some short time in port, and 
enjoy a little repose in the bosom of his family : particularly as 
his wife was in that delicate situation that most calls forth the 
tenderness and solicitude of an affectionate husband. But 
though he wrote four letters successively to the Secretary, he 
never received an answer, and was obliged reluctantly to ac- 
quiesce. 

While laying in Boston Roads, nearly ready for sea, the Brit- 
ish frigate Shannon appeared off the harbor, and made signals 
expressive of a challenge. The brave Lawrence immediately 
determined on accepting it, though conscious at the time of the 
great disparity between the two ships. The Shannon was a 
prime vessel, equipped in an extraordinary manner, for the ex- 
press purpose of combating advantageously one of our largest 
frigates. She had an unusually numerous crew of picked men, 
thoroughly disciplined and well- officered She was commanded 
by Captain Broke, one of the bravest and ablest officers in the 
service, who fought merely for reputation. 



iij CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

On the other hand, the Chesapeake was an indifferent ship ; 
with a crew, a great part of whom were newly recruited, and 
not brought into proper discipline. They were strangers to 
their commander, who had not had time to produce that perfect 
subordination, yet strong personal attachment, which he had 
the talent of creating wherever he commanded. His first lieu- 
tenant was sick on shore ; the other officers, though meritorious, 
were young men; two of them were mere acting lieutenants ; 
most of them recently appointed to the ship, and unacquainted 
with the men. Those who are in the least informed in nautical 
affairs, must perceive the greatness of these disadvantages. 

The most earnest endeavors were used, by Commodore 
Bainbridge and other gentlemen of nice honor and sound 
experience, to dissuade Captain Lawrence from what was 
considered a rash and unnecessary exposure. He felt and ac- 
knowledged the force of their reasons, but persisted in his 
determination. lie was peculiarly situated ; he had formerly 
challenged the Bonne Ciioyenne, and should he decline a similar 
challenge, it might subject him to sneers and misrepresenta- 
tions. Among the other unfortunate circumstances that at- 
tended this ill-starred battle, was the delay of a written chal- 
lenge from Captain Broke, which did not arrive until after 
Captain Lawrence had sailed. It is stated to have been couched 
in the most frank and courteous language ; minutely detailing 
the force of his ship ; and offering, if the Chesapeake should 
not be completely prepared, to cruise off and on until such 
time as she made a specified signal of being ready for the con- 
flict. It is to be deeply regretted that Captain Lawrence did 
not receive this gallant challenge, as it would have given him 
time to put his ship in proper order, and spared him the neces- 
sity of hurrying out in his unprepared condition, to so formal 
and momentous an encounter. 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 47 

After getting the ship under way, he called the crew together 
and having ordered the white flag to be hoisted, bearing the 
motto, " Free trade and sailors' rights," he, according to custom, 
made them a short harangue. While he was speaking several 
murmurs were heard, and strong symptoms of dissatisfaction 
appeared in the manners and countenances of the crew. After 
he had finished, a scoundrel Portuguese, who was boatswain's 
mate, and acted as spokesman to the murmurers, replied to 
Captain Lawrence in an insolent manner, complaining, among 
other things, that they had not been paid their prize-money, 
which had been due for some time past. 

The critical nature of the moment, and his ignorance of the 
dispositions and characters of his crew, would not allow Captain 
Lawrence to notice such dastardly and mutinous conduct in the 
manner it deserved. He dared not thwart the humors of men. 
over whose affections he had not had time to acquire any in- 
fluence, and therefore ordered the purser to take them below 
and give them checks for their prize-money, which was accord- 
ingly done. 

We dwell on these particulars to show the disastrous and dis- 
heartening circumstances under which Captain Lawrence went 
forth to this battle, — circumstances which shook even his calm 
and manly breast, and filled him with a despondency unusual 
to his nature. Justice to the memory of this invaluable officer 
requires that the disadvantages under which he fought should 
be made public. # 

It was on the morning of the 1st of June that the Chesa- 
peake put to sea. The Shannon, on seeing her come out, bore 
away, and the other followed. At 4 p. m. the Chesapeake haled 

*' The particulars of this action are chiefly given from a conversation with cno 
of the officers of the Chesapeake ; and we believe may be relied on as authentic 



48 CArTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

up and fired a gun ; the Shannon then hove to. The vessels 
manoeuvred in awful silence, until within pistol-shot, when the 
Shannon opened her fire, and both vessels almost at the same 
moment poured forth tremendous broadsides. The execution 
in both ships was terrible, but the fire of the Shannon was pe- 
culiarly fatal, not only making great slaughter among the men, 
but cutting down some of the most valuable officers. The very 
first shot killed Mr. White, sailing-master of the Chesapeake, an 
excellent officer, whose loss at such a moment was disastrous in 
the extreme. The fourth lieutenant, Mr. Ballard, received also 
a mortal wound in this broadside, and at the same moment 
Captain Lawrence was shot through the leg with a musket-ball ; 
he however supported himself on the companion-way, and con- 
tinued to give his orders with his usual coolness. About three 
broadsides were exchanged, which, from the closeness of the 
ships, were dreadfully destructive. The Chesapeake had three 
men shot from her helm successively, each taking it as the other 
fell ; this of course produced irregularity in the steering, and 
the consequence was, that her anchor caught in one of the 
Shiannon's after ports. She was thus in a position where her guns 
could not be brought to bear upon the enemy, while the latter 
was enabled to fire raking shots from her foremost guns, which 
swept the upper decks of the Chesapeake, killing or wounding 
the greater portion of the men. A hand-grenade was thrown 
on the quarter-deck, which set fire to some musket-cartridges, 
but did no other damage. 

Tn this state of carnage and exposure about twenty of the 
Shannon's men, seeing a favorable opportunity for boarding, 
without waiting for orders, jumped on the deck of the Chesa- 
peake. Captain Lawrence had scarce time to call his boarders, 
when he received a second and mortal wound from a musket- 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 49 

ball, which lodged in his intestines. Lieutenant Cox, who com- 
manded the second division, rushed up at the call for the board- 
ers, but came just in time to receive his falling commander. 
He was in the act of carrying him below, when Captain Broke, 
accompanied by his first lieutenant, and followed by his regular 
boarders, sprang on board the Chesapeake. The brave Law- 
rence saw the overwhelming danger ; his last words, as he was 
borne bleeding from the deck, were, " Don't surrender the 
ship ! " 

Samuel Livermore, Esq., of Boston, who from personal attach- 
ment to Captain Lawrence had accompanied him in this cruise 
as chaplain, attempted to revenge his fall. He shot at Captain 
Broke, but missed him ; the latter made a cut at his head, which 
Livermore warded off, but in so doing received a severe wound 
in the arm. The only officer that now remained on the upper 
deck was Lieutenant Ludlow, who was so entirely weakened and 
disabled by repeated wounds, received early in the action, as to 
be incapable of personal resistance. Owing to the compara- 
tively small number of men, therefore, that survived on the up- 
per deck, having no officer to head them, the British succeeded 
in securing complete possession, before those from below could 
get up. Lieutenant Budd, who had commanded the first divi- 
sion below, being informed of the danger, hastened up with some 
men, but was overpowered by superior numbers and cut down 
immediately. Great embarrassment took place, in consequence 
of the officers being unacquainted with the crew. In one in- 
stance in particular, Lieutenant Cox, on mounting the deck, 
joined a party of the enemy through mistake, and was made 
sensible of his error by their cutting at him with their sabres. 

While this scene of havoc and confusion was going on above, 
Captain Lawrence, who was lying in the wardroom in excru- 



50 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

dating pain, hearing the firing cease, forgot the anguish of his 
wounds ; having no officer near him, he ordered the surgeon to 
hasten on deck and tell the officers to fight on to the last, and 
never to strike the colors ; adding, " They shall wave while 1 
live." The fate of the battle, however, was decided. Finding 
all further resistance vain, and a mere waste of life, Lieutenant 
Ludlow gave up the ship; after which he received a sabre 
wound in the head from one of the Shannons crew, which frac- 
tured his skull and ultimately proved mortal. He was one of 
the most promising officers of his age in the service, highly 
esteemed for his professional talents, and beloved for the gen- 
erous qualities that adorned his private character. 

Thus terminated one of the most remarkable combats on 
naval record. From the peculiar accidents that attended it, the 
battle was short, desperate, and bloody. So long as the cannon- 
ading continued, the Chesapeake is said to have clearly had the 
advantage; and had the ships not ran foul, it is probable 
she would have captured the Shannon. Though considerablj 
damaged in her upper works, and pierced with some shot-holes 
in her hull, yet she had sustained no injury to affect her safety ; 
whereas the Shannon had received several shots between wind 
and water, and, consequently, could not have sustained the ac- 
tion long. The havoc on both sides was dreadful ; but to the 
singular circumstance of having every officer on the upper deck 
either killed or wounded, early in the action, may chiefly be at- 
tributed the loss of the Chesapeake. 

There have been various vague complaints circulated of the 
excesses of the victors, and of their treatment of our crew after 
the surrender. These have been, as usual, dwelt on and mag- 
nified, and made subjects of national aspersion. Nothing can 
be more illiberal than this. Where the scene of conflict is tu- 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 51 

multuous and sanguinary, and the struggle desperate, as in the 
boarding of a ship, excesses will take place among the men 
which it is impossible to prevent. They are the inevitable in- 
cidents of war, and should never be held up tb provoke national 
abhorrence or retaliation. Indeed, they are so liable to be mis- 
represented by partial and distorted accounts, that very little 
faith is ever to be placed in them. Such, for instance, is the 
report, that the enemy discharged several muskets into the 
cockpit after the ship had been given up. This, in fact, was 
provoked by the wanton act of a boy below, who shot down the 
sentinel stationed at the gangway, and thus produced a mo- 
mentary exasperation, and an alarm that our men were rising. 
It should be recollected, likewise, that our flag was not struck, 
but was haled down by the enemy ; consequently, the surren- 
der of the ship was not immediately known throughout, and the 
struggle continued in various places, before the proper orders 
could be communicated. It is wearisome and disgusting to ob- 
serve the war of slander kept up by the little minds of both 
countries, wherein every paltry misdeed of a paltry individual 
is insidiously trumpeted forth as a stigma on the respective 
naton. By these means are engendered lasting roots of bitter- 
ness, that give an implacable spirit to the actual hostility of the 
times, and will remain after the present strife shall have passed 
away. As the nations must inevitably, and at no very distant 
period, come once more together in the relations of amity and 
commerce, it is to be wished that as little private animosity may 
be encouraged as possible ; so that though we may contend for 
rights and interests, we may never cease to esteem and respect 
each other. 

The two ships presented dismal spectacles after the battle, 
Crowded with the wounded and the dying, they resembled float- 



52 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

ing hospitals, sending forth groans at every roll. The brave 
Broke lay delirious from a wound in the head, which he is said 
to have received while endeavoring to prevent the slaughter of 
some of our men who had surrendered. In his rational inter- 
vals he always spoke in the highest terms of the courage and 
skill of Lawrence, and of "the gallant and masterly style " in 
which he brought the Chesapeake into action. 

The wounds of Captain Lawrence rendered it impossible to 
remove him after the battle, and his cabin being very much 
shattered, he remained in the wardroom. Here he lay, attended 
by his own surgeon, and surrounded by his brave and suffering 
officers. He made no comment on the battle, nor indeed was 
heard to utter a word, except to make such simple requests as 
his necessities required. In this way he lingered through foui 
days, in extreme bodily pain, and the silent melancholy of a 
proud and noble heart, and then expired. His body was 
wrapped in the colors of his ship and laid on the quarter-deck 
of the Chesapeake, to be conveyed to Halifax for interment. 

At the time of his death he was but thirty-two years of age. 
nearly sixteen of which had been honorably expended in the 
service of his country. He was a disciplinarian of the highest 
order, producing perfect obedience and subordination without 
severity. His men became zealously devoted to him, and ready 
to do through affection what severity would never have com- 
pelled. He was scrupulously correct in his principles, delicate 
in his sense of honor ; and to his extreme jealousy of reputation 
he fell a victim, in daring an ill-matched encounter, which pru- 
dence would have justified him in declining. In battle, where 
his lofty and commanding person made him conspicuous, the 
calm, collected courage and elevated tranquillity which he 
maintained in the midst of peril, imparted a confidence to every 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 53 

bosom. In the hour of victory he was moderate and unassum- 
ing ; towards the vanquished he was gentle, generous, and 
humane. But it is on the amiable qualities that adorned his 
private character, that his friends will hang with the fondest 
remembrance, — that bland philanthropy that emanated from 
every look, that breathed forth in every accent, that gave a 
(jrace to every action. His was a general benevolence, that, 
like a lambent flame, shed its cheering rays throughout the 
sphere of his influence, warning and gladdening every heart, 
and lighting up every countenance into smiles. But there is 
one little circle on whose sacred sorrows even the eye of sym- 
pathy dares not intrude. His brother being dead, he was the 
last male branch of a family who looked up to him as its orna- 
ment and pride. His fraternal tenderness was the prop and 
consolation of two widowed sisters, and in him their helpless 
offspring found a father. He left, also, a wife and two young 
children, to whom he was fervently attached. The critical situ- 
ation of the former was one of those cares which preyed upon 
his mind at the time he went forth to battle. The utmost pre- 
cautions had been taken by her relatives, to keep from her the 
knowledge of her husband's fate ; their anxiety has been re- 
lieved by the birth of a son, who, we trust, will inherit the vir- 
tues and emulate the actions of his father. The unfortunate 
mother is now slowly recovering from a long and dangerous con- 
finement ; but has yet to learn the heart-rending intelligence, 
that the infant in her arms is fatherless. 

There is a touching pathos about the death of this estimable 
officer, that endears him more to us than if he had been suc- 
cessful. The prosperous conqueror is an object of admiration, 
but in some measure of envy ; whatever gratitude we feel for 
his services, we are apt to think them repaid by the plaudits he 



54 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

enjoys. But lie who foils a martyr to his country's cause ex- 
cites the fulness of public sympathy. Envy cannot repine at 
laurels so dearly purchased, and gratitude feels that he is be- 
yond the reach of its rewards. The last sad scene of bis life 
hallows his memory ; it remains sacred by misfortune, and hon- 
ored, not by the acclamations, but the tears of his countrymen. 
The idea of Lawrence, cut down in the prime of his days, 
stretched upon his deck, wrapped in the flag of his country, — 
that flag which he had contributed to ennoble, and had died to 
defend, — is a picture that will remain treasured up in the dear- 
est recollections of every American. His will form one of those 
talismanic names which every nation preserves as watchwords 
for patriotism and valor. 

Deeply, therefore, as every bosom must lament the fall of so 
gallant and amiable an officer, there are some reflections con- 
soling to the pride of friendship, and which may soothe, though 
they cannot prevent, the bitter tear of affection. He fell before 
his flag was struck. His fall was the cause, not the consequence, 
of defeat. He fell covered with glory, in the flower of his days, 
in the perfection of mental and personal endowment, and the 
freshness of reputation; thus leaving in every mind the full and 
perfect image of a hero. However we may deplore the stroke 
of death, his visits are occasionally well timed for his victim ; he 
sets a seal upon the fame of the illustrious, fixing it beyond the 
reach of accident or change. And where is the son of honor 
panting for distinction, who would not rather, like Lawrence, be 
snatched away in the brightness of youth and glory, than dwin- 
dle down to what is termed a good old age, wear his reputation 
to the shreds, and leave behind him nothing but the remem- 
brance of decrepitude and imbecility. 

With feelings that swell our hearts do we notice the honors 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 55 

paid to the remains of the brave Lawrence at Halifax. When 
the ships arrived in port, a generous concern was expressed for 
his fate. The recollection of his humanity towards the crew of 
the Peacock was still fresh in every mind. His obsequies were 
celebrated with appropriate ceremonials and an affecting so- 
lemnity. His pall was supported by the oldest captains in the 
British service that were in Halifax ; and the naval officers 
crowded to yield the last sad honors to a man who was late 
their foe, but now their foe no longer. There is a sympathy 
between gallant souls that knows no distinction of clime or 
nation. They honor in' each other what they feel proud of in 
themselves. The group that gathered round the grave of Law- 
rence presented a scene worthy of the heroic days of chivalry. 
It was a complete triumph of the nobler feelings over the sav- 
age passions of war. We know not where most to bestow our 
admiration, — on the living, who showed such generous sensi- 
bility to departed virtue, or on the dead, in being worthy of such 
obsequies from such spirits. It is by deeds like these that we 
really feel ourselves subdued. The conflict of arms is ferocious, 
and triumph does but engender more deadly hostility ; but the 
contest of magnanimity calls forth the better feelings, and the 
conquest is over the affections. We hope that in such a con- 
test we may never be outdone ; but that the present unhappy 
war may be continually softened and adorned by similar acts 
of courtesy and kindness on either part, thus sowing among 
present hostilities the quickening seeds of future friendshipc 

As to the event of this battle, deeply as we mourn the loss 
of so many valuable lives, we feel no further cause of lamenta- 
tion. Brilliant as the victory undoubtedly was to the conquer- 
ors, our nation lost nothing of honor in the conflict. The ship 
was gallantly and bloodily defended to the last, and was lost, not 



56 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

through want of good conduct or determined bravery, but 
from the unavoidable chances of battle.* It was a victory 
" over which the conqueror mourned — so many suffered." 
We will not enter into any mechanical measurement of feet and 
inches, or any nice calculation of force ; whether she had a 
dozen men more or less, or were able to throw a few pounds 
more or less of ball, than her adversary, by way of accounting 
for her defeat; we leave to nicer calculators to balance skill and 
courage against timber and old iron, and mete out victories by 
the square and the steelyard. The question of naval superi- 
ority, about which so much useless anxiety has been manifested 
of late, and which we fear will cause a vast deal of strife and 
ill-blood before it is put to rest, was in our opinion settled long- 
since, in the course of the five preceding battles. From a gen- 
eral examination of these battles, it appears clearly to us that, 
under equal circumstances of force and preparation, the nations 
are equal on the ocean ; and the result of any contest, between 
well-matched ships, would depend entirely on accident. This, 
without any charge of vanity, we may certainly claim : the Brit- 
ish, in justice and candor, must admit as much, and it would be 
arrogant in us to insist on anything more. 

Our officers have hitherto been fighting under superior ex- 
citement to the British. They have been eager to establish a 
name, and from their limited number, each has felt as if individ- 
ually responsible for the reputation of the Navy. Besides, the 

* In this we speak of the loyal and really American part of the crew. We 
have, it is true, been told of treacherous conduct among the murmurers, a num- 
ber of whom, headed by the dastardly Portuguese boatswain's mate, are said to 
have deserted their commander at the moment of most need. As this matter 
will come under the scrutiny of the proper tribunal, we pass it over without fur- 
ther notice. If established, it will form another of the baleful disadvantages 
undsr which this battle was fought, and may serve to show the policy of admit- 
ting the leaven of foreign vagabonds among our own sound-hearted sailors. 



CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 57 

haughty superiority with which they have at various times been 
treated by the enemy, had stung the feelings of the officers, and 
even touched the rough pride of the common sailor. They 
have spared no pains, therefore, to prepare for contest with so 
formidable a foe, and have fought with the united advantages of 
discipline and enthusiasm. 

An equal excitement is now felt by the British. Galled by 
our successes, they begin to find that we are an enemy that calls 
for all their skill and circumspection. They have therefore 
resorted to a strictness of discipline, and to excessive precau- 
tions and preparations that had been neglected in their Navy, 
and which no other modern foe has been able to compel. Thus 
circumstanced, every future contest must be bloody and preca- 
rious. The question of superiority, if such an idle question is 
still kept up, will in all probability be shifting with the result of 
different battles, as either side has superior advantages or su- 
perior good fortune. 

For our part, we conceive that the great purpose of our Navy 
is accomplished. It was not to be expected that with so incon- 
siderable a force, we should make any impression on British 
power, or materially affect British commerce. We fought, not 
to take their ships and plunder their wealth, but to pluck some 
of their laurels wherewith to grace our own brows. In this we 
have succeeded ; and thus the great mischief that our little 
Navy was capable of doing to Great Britain, in showing that 
her maritime power was vulnerable, has been effected, and is 
irretrievable. 

The British may now swarm on our coasts — they may infest 
)ur rivers and our bays — they may destroy our ships — they 
may burn our docks and our ports — they may annihilate every 
gallant tar that rights beneath our flag — they may wreak every 



58 CAPTAIN JAMES LAWRENCE. 

vengeance on our marine that their overwhelming force enables 
them to accomplish — and after all what have they effected ? 
redeemed the preeminence of their flag ? destroyed the naval 
power of this country? — no such thing. They must first 
obliterate from the tablets of our memories that deep-traced 
recollection, that we have repeatedly met them with equal force 
and conquered. In that inspiring idea, which is beyond the 
reach of mortal hand, exists the germ of future navies, future 
power, and future conquest. What is our Navy ? — a handful 
of frigates ; let them be destroyed ; our forests can produce 
hundreds such. Should our docks be laid in ruins, we can 
rebuild them ; should our gallant band of tars be annihilated, 
thanks to the vigorous population of our/ country, we can fur- 
nish thousands and thousands of such ; but so long as exists 
the moral certainty that we have within us the spirit, the abili- 
ties, and the means of attaining naval glory, — so long the 
enemy, in wreaking their resentment on our present force, do 
but bite the stone which has been hurled at them, — the hand 
that hurled it remains uninjured. 



Since the publication of our biograpical sketch of this la- 
mented officer, a letter has been put in our hands, from Com- 
modore Bainbridge, contradicting the statement of his having 
dissuaded Capt. Lawrence from encountering the Shannon ; and 
mentioning that he did not see Capt. L. for several days pre- 
vious to his sailing. The hasty manner in which the biography 
was written, though it is a poor apology for incorrectness, may 
account for any errors that may occur. In fact, we did but con- 
sider ourselves as pioneers, breaking the way for more able and 
wary biographers who should come after us ; who might dili- 



CAPTAIN JAMES LA \VR EX CK. 6'J 

gently pursue the path we had opened, profit by the tracks we 
had left, and cautiously avoid the false steps we had made. 

The facts respecting the battle were almost all taken from 
notes of a conversation with one of the officers of the Chesa- 
peake which were afterwards revised and acknowledged by him. 
Some, it is true, were cautiously selected from the current re- 
ports of the day, according as they bore the stamp of probability, 
and were supported by the concurrence of various testimony. 
These may occasionally be somewhat misstated, but we believe 
that in general they are materially correct. That any blame 
could ever attach for a moment to the conduct of Capt. Law- 
rence, in encountering the Shannon, though superior in equip- 
ment, we never insinuated or supposed. On the contrary, we 
admired that zeal for the honor of his flag, and that jealousy 
of his own reputation, that led him, in the face of obvious 
disadvantages, to a battle, which men of less heroism would 
have declined without disgrace. The calculating, cautious- 
spirited commander, who warily measures the weapons, and 
estimates the force of his opponent, and shuns all engage- 
ments where the chances are not in his favor, may gain the 
reputation of prudence, but never of valor. There were suffi- 
cient chances on the side of Lawrence to exculpate him from 
all imputation of rashness, and sufficient perils to entitle him to 
the highest character for courage. He who would greatly de- 
serve, must greatly dare, for brilliant victory is only achieved 
at the risk of disastrous defeat, and those laurels are ever 
brightest that are gathered on the very brink of danger. 



60 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 

It is the laudable desire of every brave man to receive the 
praises of his countrymen ; but there is a dearer and more cher- 
ished wish that grows closer to his heart ; it is to live in the 
recollections of those he loves and honors ; to leave behind him 
a name, at the mention of which the bosom of friendship shall 
glow, the eye of affection shall brighten; which shall be a leg- 
acy of honest pride to his family, causing it to dwell on his 
worthy deeds and glory in his memory. The bravest soldier 
would not willingly expose himself to certain danger, if he 
thought that death were to be followed by oblivion ; he might 
rise above the mere dread of bodily pain, but human pride 
shrinks from the darkness and silence of the grave. 

It is the duty, and it is likewise the policy, therefore, of a na- 
tion, to pay distinguished honor to the memories of those who 
have fallen in its service. It is, after all, but a cheap reward for 
sufferings and death ; but it is a reward that will prompt others 
to the sacrifice, when they see that it is faithfully discharged. 
The youthful bosom warms w T ith emulation at the praises of de- 
parted heroes. The marble monument that bears the story of 
a nation's admiration and gratitude, becomes an object of am- 
bition. Death, the great terror of warfare, ceases to be an evil 
when graced with such distinctions ; and thus one hero may be 
said, like a phoenix, to spring from the ashes of his predecessor. 

In the gallant young officer who is the subject of the present 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 61 

memoir, we shall see these observations verified; he fought 
with the illustrious example of his brethren before his eyes, 
and died with the funeral honors of Lawrence fresh in his 
recollection. 

Lieutenant William Burrows was born in 1785, at Kinderton, 
near Philadelphia, the seat of his father, William Ward Burrows, 
Esq., of South Carolina. He was educated chiefly under the eye 
of his parent, who was a gentleman of accomplished mind and 
polished manners. It is not known whether he was intended 
for any particular profession ; but great pains were taken to 
instruct him in the living languages, and at the age of thir- 
teen he was as well acquainted with the German as with his 
mother tongue ; he was likewise kept rigidly at the study of the 
French, for which, however, he showed singular aversion. The 
dawning of his character was pleasing and auspicious ; to quick- 
ness of intellect he added an amiable disposition and generous 
sensibility of heart. His character, however, soon assumed 
more distinct and peculiar features ; a shade of reserve began 
gradually to settle on his manners. At an age when the feel- 
ings of other children are continually sallying forth, he seemed 
to hush his into subjection. He appeared to retire within him- 
self, to cherish a solitary independence of mind, and to rely as 
much as possible on his own resources. It seemed as if his 
young imagination had already glanced forth on the rough scene 
of his future life, and that he was silently preparing himself for 
its vicissitudes. Nor is it improbable that such was the case. 
Though little communicative of his hopes and wishes, it was 
evident that his genius had taken its bias. Even among the 
gentle employments and elegant pursuits of a polite education, 
his family was astonished to perceive the rugged symptoms of 
the sailor continually breaking forth ; and his drawing-master 

3* 



62 LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 

would sometimes surprise him neglecting the allotted task, to 
paint the object of his silent adoration — a gallant ship-of-war 

On finding that such was the determined bent of his inclina- 
tions, care was immediately taken to instruct him in naval sci- 
ence. A midshipman's warrant was procured for him in No- 
vember, 1799, and in the following January he joined the sloop- 
of-war Portsmouth, commanded by Captain M'Neale, in which 
he sailed to France. This cruise, while it confirmed his pred- 
iction for the life he had adopted, made him acquainted with 
his own deficiencies. Instead of the puerile vanity and harm- 
less ostentation which striplings generally evince when they 
first put on their uniform, and feel the importance of command, 
it was with difficulty he could be persuaded to wear the naval 
dress, until he had proved himself worthy of it by his services. 
The same mixture of genuine diffidence and proud humility was 
observed in the discharge of his duties towards his inferiors ; he 
felt the novelty of his situation, and shrunk from the exercise 
of authority over the aged and veteran sailor, whom he con- 
sidered his superior in seamanship. On his return home, there- 
fore, he requested a furlough of some months, to strengthen 
him in the principles of navigation. He also resumed the study 
of the French language, the necessity for which he had experi- 
enced in his late cruise, and from his knowledge of grammatical 
elements, joined to vigorous application, he soon learned to use 
it with fluency. 

He was afterwards ordered on duty, and served on board of 
various ships until 1803, when he was ordered to the frigate 
Constitution, Commodore Preble. Soon after the arrival of that 
ship in the Mediterranean, the Commodore, noticing his zeal and 
abilities, made him an acting lieutenant. In the course of the 
Tripolitan war, he distinguished himself on various occasions by 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 63 

his intrepidity, particularly in one instance, when he rushed into 
the midst of a mutinous body, and seized the ringleader at the 
imminent hazard of his life. After his return to the United 
States, in 1807, he was in different services, and among others, 
as first lieutenant of the Hornet. While in this situation, he 
distinguished himself greatly during a violent and dangerous 
gale, insomuch that his brother officers attributed the preserva- 
tion of the ship entirely to his presence of mind and consum- 
mate seamanship. 

The details of a sailor's life are generally brief, and little sat- 
isfactory. We expect miraculous stories from men who rove 
the deep, visit every corner of the world, and mingle in storms 
and battles ; and are mortified to find them treating these sub- 
jects with provoking brevity. The fact is, these circumstances 
that excite our wonder are trite and familiar to their minds. 
He whose whole life is a tissue of perils and adventures passes 
lightly over scenes at which the landsman, accustomed to the 
security of his fireside, shudders even in imagination. Mere 
bravery ceases to be a matter of ostentation, when every one 
around him is brave ; and hair-breadth 'scapes are commonplace 
topics among men whose very profession consists in the hourly 
hazard of existence. 

In seeking, therefore, after interesting anecdotes concerning 
those naval officers whose exploits have excited public enthusi 
asm, our curiosity is continually baffled by general accounts, or 
meagre particulars, given with the technical brevity of a log- 
book. We have thus been obliged to pass cursorily over several 
years of Burrows' seafaring life, though doubtless checkered 
by many striking incidents. 

From what we can collect, he seems to have been a marked 
and eccentric character. His peculiarity, instead of being 



01 LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 

smoothed and worn down by mingling with the world, became 
more and more prominent, as he advanced in life. He had 
centred all his pride in becoming a thorough and accomjriished 
sailor, and regarded everything else with indifference. His 
manners were an odd compound of carelessness and punctilio, 
frankness and taciturnity. He stood aloof from the familiarity 
of strangers, and in his contempt of what he considered fawn- 
ing and profession, was sometimes apt to offend by blunt sim- 
plicity, or chill by reserve. But his character, when once 
known, seemed to attach by its very eccentricities, and though 
little studious of pleasing, he soon became a decided favorite. 
He had an original turn of thought and a strong perception of 
everything ludicrous and characteristic. Though scarcely ever 
seen to laugh himself, he possessed an exquisite vein of dry 
humor which he would occasionally indulge in the hours of 
hilarity, and, without moving a muscle of his own countenance, 
would set the table in a roar. When under the influence of this 
lurking drollery, everything he said and did was odd and whim- 
sical. His replies were remarkably happy., and, heightened by 
the peculiarity of his manner, and the provoking gravity of his 
demeanor, were sources of infinite merriment to his associates. 
It was his delight to put on the dress of the common sailor, and 
explore the haunts of low life, drawing from thence traits of 
character and comic scenes with which he would sometimes 
entertain his messmates. 

But with ill this careless and eccentric manner, he possessed 
a heart full of noble qualities. He was proud of spirit, but per- 
fectly unassuming ; jealous of his own rights, but scrupulously 
considerate of those of others. His friendships were strong and 
sincere ; and he was zealous in the performance of secret and 
important services for those to whom he was attached. There 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. $5 

was a rough benevolence in his disposition that manifested itself 
in a thousand odd ways ; nothing delighted him more than to 
surprise the distressed with relief, and he was noted for his 
kindness and condescension towards the humble and dependent. 
His companions were full of his generous deeds, and he was 
the darling of the common sailors. Such was the sterling worth 
that lay encrusted in an unpromising exterior, and hidden from 
the world by a forbidding and taciturn reserve. 

With such strong sensibilities and solitary pride of character, 
it was the lot of Burrows to be wounded in that tender part 
where the feelings of officers seem most assailable. In his pro- 
motion to a lieutenancy he had the mortification to find himself 
outranked by junior officers, some of whom he had commanded 
in the Tripolitan war. He remonstrated to the Navy Depart- 
ment, but without redress. On Mr. Hamilton's going into 
office, he stated to him his claims, and, impatient of the slight 
which he conceived he had suffered, offered to resign his com- 
mission, which, however, was not accepted. Whether the 
wrongs of which he complained were real or imaginary, they 
preyed deeply on his mind. He seemed for a time to grow 
careless of the world and of himself ; withdrew more than ever 
from society, and abandoned himself to the silent broodings of 
a wounded spirit. Perhaps this morbid sensibility of feeling 
might in some measure have been occasioned by infirmity of 
body, his health having been broken by continual and severe 
duty ; but it belongs to a saturnine character, like that of Bur- 
rows, to feel deeply and sorely. Men of gayer spirits and more 
mercurial temperament, may readily shake off vexation, or 
oustle it away amid the amusements and occupations of the 
world; but Burrows was scanty in his pleasures, limited in his 
resources, single in his ambition. Naval distinction was the 



60 LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 

object of all his hope and pride ; it was the only light that led 
him on and cheered his way, and whatever intervened left him 
in darkness and dreariness of heart. 

Finding his resignation was not accepted, and feeling tem- 
porary disgust at the service, he applied for a furlough, which, 
with some difficulty, he obtained. He then entered as first 
officer on board the merchant ship Thomas Penrose, Capt. Ans- 
ley, and sailed on a commercial voyage to Canton. On his re- 
turn passage he was captured and carried into Barbadoes, but 
permitted to come home on parole. Immediately on his being 
exchanged, in June, 1813, he was appointed to the command of 
the brig Enterprise, at Portsmouth. 

This appointment seemed to infuse new life and spirits into 
Burrows, and to change his whole deportment. His proper 
pride was gratified on having a separate command ; he no longer 
felt like an unimportant individual, but that he had rank and 
station to support. He threw off a great deal of his habitual 
reserve, became urbane and attentive, and those who had 
lately looked upon him as a mere misanthrope were delighted 
with the manly frankness of his manners. 

On the 1st of September, the Enterprise sailed from Ports- 
mouth on a cruise. On the 5th, early in the morning, they 
espied a brig in shore getting under way. They reconnoitred 
her for a while to ascertain her character, of which they were 
soon informed by her hoisting three British ensigns, and firing a 
shot as a challenge. The Enterprise then hauled upon a wind, 
stood out of the bay, and prepared for action. A calm for some 
time delayed the encounter ; it was succeeded by a breeze from 
ihe S. W. which gave our vessel the weather-gage. After ma- 
noeuvring for a while to the windward, in order to try her sailing 
with the enemy, and to ascertain his force, the Enterprise, about 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 07 

3 p.m., shortened sail, hoisted three ensigns, fired a gun, tacked, 
and ran down with an intention to bring him to close quarters. 
When within half-pistol shot the enemy gave three cheers, and 
commenced the action with his starboard broadside. The 
cheers and the broadside were returned on our part, and the 
action became general. In about five minutes after the battle 
had commenced, the gallant Burrows received a musket-ball in 
his body and fell ; he, however, refused to be carried below, but 
continued on deck through the action. The active command 
was then taken by Lieutenant M'Call, who conducted himself 
with great skill and coolness. The enemy was out-manoeuvred 
and cut up ; his maintopmast and topsail-yard shot away ; a po- 
sition gained on his starboard bow, and a raking fire kept up, 
until his guns were silenced and he cried for quarters, saying 
that as his colors were nailed to the mast, he could not haul 
them down. The prize proved to be his Britannic Majesty's 
brig Boxer , of 14 guns. The number of her crew is a matter of 
conjecture and dispute. Sixty-four prisoners were taken, sev- 
enteen of whom were wounded. How many of the dead were 
thrown into the sea during the action it is impossible to say ; * 
the British return only four as killed ; courtesy forbids us to 
question the veracity of an officer on mere presumption ; but 
it is ever the natural wish of the vanquished to depreciate their 
force ; and, in truth, we have seen with regret various instances 
of disingenuousness on the part of the enemy, in their state- 
ments of our naval encounters. But we will not enter into 

* In a letter from Captain Hull to Commodore Bainbridge, he describes the 
state of the Boxer when brought into port, and observes, " We find it impossible . 
to get at the number of killed; no papers are found by which we can ascertain it. 
I, however, counted ninety hammocks which were in her netting with beds in 
hem, besides several beds without hammocks; and she had excellent accommo- 
dations for all her officers below in state-rooms, so that I have no doubt that she 
Bad one hundred men on boaii." 



68 LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 

disputes of this kind. It is enough that the enemy entered 
into the battle with a bravado at the mast-head, and a con- 
fidence of success ; this either implied a consciousness of his 
own force, or a low opinion of his antagonist ; in either case he 
was mistaken. It is a fruitless task to vindicate victories against 
the excuses of the vanquished ; sufficient for the victor is the 
joy of his triumph, he should allow the enemy the consolation 
of accounting for it. 

We turn gladly from such an idle discussion to notice the last 
moments of the worthy Burrows. There needs no elaborate 
pencil to impart pathos and grandeur to the death of a brave 
man. The simple anecdotes, given in simple terms by his sur- 
viving comrades, present more striking pictures than could be 
wrought up by the most refined attempts of art. " At 20 min- 
utes past 3, p. M./' says one account, " our brave commander 
fell, and while lying on the deck, refusing to be carried below, 
raised his head and requested that the flag might never be struck" 
In this situation he remained during the rest of the engage- 
ment, regardless of bodily pain ; regardless of the life-blood 
fast ebbing from his wound ; watching with anxious eye the 
vicissitudes of battle ; cheering his men by his voice, but an- 
imating them still more by his glorious example. When the 
sword of the vanquished enemy was presented to him, we are 
told that he clasped his hands and exclaimed, " I am satisfied, I 
die contented ! " He now permitted himself to be carried be- 
low, and the necessary attentions were paid to save his life, or 
ulleviate his sufferings. His wound, however, was beyond the 
power of surgery, and he breathed his last within a few hours 
after the victory. 

The commander of the Boxer, Captain Samuel Blythe, was 
killed early in the action by a cannon-ball ; had he lived, he 



LIEUTENANT BURROWS. 69 

might have defended his ship more desperately, but it is not 
probable with more success. He was an officer of distinguished 
merit; having received a sword from government for his good 
conduct under Sir James L. Yeo, in the capture of Cayenne. 
He was also one of the pall-bearers to our lamented Lawrence, 
when buried at Halifax. It was his fate now to receive like 
courtesy at the hands of his enemy. His remains, in com- 
pany with those of the brave Burrows, were brought to Port- 
land, where they were interred with military honors. It was 
a striking and affecting sight, to behold two gallant com- 
manders, who had lately been arrayed in deadly hostility against 
each other, descending into one quiet grave, there to mingle 
their dust peacefully together. 

At the time of his decease Lieutenant Burrows was but in 
his twenty-ninth year, — a most untimely death as it concerned 
the interests of his country, and the fulness of his own renown 
Had he survived, there is little doubt that his great professional 
merits, being rendered conspicuous by this achievement, would 
have raised him to importance, and enlarged the sphere of his 
usefulness. And it is more than probable that those rich quali- 
ties of heart and mind, which, chilled by neglect, had lain almost 
withering in the shade, being once vivified by the quickening 
rays of public favor, would have sprung forth in full luxuriance. 
As it is, his public actions will live on the proud page of our 
naval history, and his private worth will long flourish in the- 
memory of his intimates, who dwell with honest warmth on the 
eccentric merits of this generous and true-hearted sailor. For 
himself he was resigned to his premature fate ; life seems 
never to have had much value in his eyes, and was nothing 
when weighed with reputation. lie had attained the bright ob- 
ject of his wishes, and died in the full fruition of the warrior's 
hope, with the shouts of victory still sounding in his ears. 



COMMODORE PERRY. 

In taking up the pen to commemorate another of our naval 
victories, we solicit the patience of our readers if we indulge 
in a few preliminary reflections, not strictly arising out of the 
subject of this memoir, though, we trust, not wholly irrele- 
vant. 

Indeed, we do not pretend to the rigid precision and dis- 
passionate coolness of historic narrative. Excited as we are 
by the tone and temper of the times, and the enthusiam that 
prevails around us, we cannot, if we would, repress those feel- 
ings of pride and exultation, that gush warm from the heart, 
when the triumphs of our Navy are the theme. Public joy is 
at all times contagious ; but in the present lowering days of 
evil, it is a sight as inspiring as it is rare, to behold a whole 
nation breaking forth into gladness. 

There is a point, however, beyond which exultation becomes 
insulting, and honest pride swells into vanity. When this is 
exceeded even success proves injurious, and, instead of beget- 
ting a proper confidence in ourselves, produces that most dis- 
gusting of all national faults, boastful arrogance. This is the 
evil against the encroachments of which we would earnestly 
caution our countrymen ; it comes with such an open and im- 
posing front of worthy patriotism, and at such warm and in- 
cautious moments, that it is apt to take possession of us before 
we are aware. We have already noticed some symptoms of 
<ts prevalence. We have seen many of our papers filled with 



COMMODORE PERRY. 71 

fulsome and extravagant paragraphs, echoing the vulgar joy 
and coarse tauntings of the rabble ; these may be acceptable 
to the gross palates of the mean minded ; but they must grieve 
the feelings of the generous and liberal ; and must lessen 
our triumphs in the eyes of impartial nations. In this we 
behold the striking difference between those who fight battles, 
and those who merely talk about them. Our officers are con- 
tent modestly to announce their victories ; to give a concise 
statement of their particulars, and then drop the subject ; but 
then the theme is taken up by a thousand vaunting tongues 
and vaunting pens ; each tries to outvie the other in extrava- 
gant applause, until the very ear of admiration becomes wearied 
with excessive eulogium. 

We do not know whether, in these remarks, we are not pass- 
ing censure upon ourselves, and whether we do not largely 
indulge in the very weakness we condemn ; but of this we are 
sure, that in our rejoicings no feelings enter insulting to the 
foe. We joy, indeed, in seeing the flag of our country en- 
circled with glory, and our nation elevated to a dignified rank 
among the nations of the earth ; but we make no boastful 
claims to intrinsic superiority, nor seek to throw sneer or stigma 
on an enemy, whom, in spite of temporary hostility, we honor 
and admire. 

But, surely, if any impartial mind will consider the circum- 
stances of the case, he will pardon our countrymen for over- 
stepping, in the flush of unexpected and repeated success, the 
modest bounds of propriety. Is it a matter of surprise that, 
while our cheeks are yet scarce cool from the blushes — the 
burning blushes — of wounded pride and insulted patriotism, 
with which we have heard our country ridiculed and set at 
naught by other nations ; while our ears still ring with the gall- 



72 COMMODORE PERRY. 

ing terms in which even British statesmen have derided us, as 
weak, pusillanimous and contemptible ; while our memories 
are still sore with the tales of our flag insulted in every sea, 
and our countrymen oppressed in every port ; is it a matter 
of surprise that we should break forth into transports at seeing 
these foul aspersions all suddenly brushed away — at seeing 
a continued series of brilliant successes flashing around the 
national standard, and dazzling all eyes with their excessive 
brightness ? " Can such things be, and overcome us, like a 
summer cloud," without, not merely our " special wonder," but 
our special exultation ? He who will cast his eye back, and 
notice how, in little more than one short year, we have sud- 
denly sprung from peaceful insignificance to proud competi- 
tion with a power w 7 hose laurels have been the slow growth of 
ages, will easily excuse the temporary effervescence of our 
feelings. 

For our parts we truly declare that we revere the British 
nation. One of the dearest wishes of our hearts is to see a 
firm and well-grounded friendship established between us. 
But friendship can never long endure, unless founded on mu- 
tual respect and maintained with mutual independence ; and . 
however we may deplore the present w T ar, this double good 
will spring out of it, we will learn our own value and resources, 
and we will teach our antagonist and the world at large to 
know and estimate us properly. There is an obsequious def- 
erence in the minds of too many of our countrymen towards 
Great Britain, that not only impairs the independence of the 
national character, but defeats the very object they would at- 
tain. They would make any sacrifices to maintain a precari- 
ous, and patched-up, and humiliating connection with her ; 
but they may rest assured that the good opinion of Great 



COMMODORE PERRY. 73 

Britain was never gained by servile acquiescence ; she never 
will think the better of a people for thinking despicably of 
themselves. We execrate that lowliness of spirit that would 
flatter her vanity, cower beneath her contumely, and meanly 
lay our honors at her feet. We wish not her friendship gratu- 
itously, but to acquire it as a right ; not to supplicate it by for- 
bearance and long suffering, but gallantly to win and proudly 
to maintain it. After all, if she will not be a friend, she must 
be content to become a rival ; she will be obliged to substitute 
jealousy for contempt, and surely it is more tolerable, at any 
time, to be hated than despised. 

Such is the kind of feeling that we avow towards Great 
Britain, — equally removed, we trust, from rancorous hostility 
on the one side, and blind partiality on the other. 

Whatever we may think of the expediency or inexpediency 
of the present war, we cannot feel indifferent to its operations. 
Whenever our arms come in competition with those of the 
enemy, jealousy for our country's honor will swallow up every 
other consideration. Our feelings will ever accompany the 
flag of our country to battle, rejoicing in its glory — lamenting 
over its defeat. For there is no such thing as releasing our- 
selves from the consequences of the contest. He who fancies 
he can stand aloof in interest, and by condemning the present 
war, can exonerate himself from the shame of its disasters, is 
wofully mistaken. Other nations will not trouble themselves 
about our internal wranglings and party questions ; they will 
not ask who among us fought, or why we fought, but how we 
fought. The disgrace of defeat will not be confined to the 
contrivers of the war, or the party in power, or the conductors 
of the battle ; but will extend to the whole nation, and come 
borne to every individual. If the name of American is to be 



74 COMMODORE PERRY. 

rendered honorable in the fight, we shall each participate in 
the honor; if otherwise, we must inevitably support our share 
of the ignominy. For these reasons do we watch, with anxious 
eye, the various fortunes of this war, — a war awfully decisive 
of the future character and destinies of the nation. But much 
as we are gladdened by the bright gleams that occasionally 
break forth amid the darkness of the times, yet joyfully, most 
joyfully, shall we hail the period, when the "troubled night" 
of war shall be passed, and the " star of peace " again shed its 
mild radiance on our country. 

We have seized this opportunity to express the foregoing 
sentiments, because we thought that if of any value, they might 
stand some chance of making an impression, when accom- 
panied by the following memoir. And, indeed, in writing these 
naval biographies, it is our object not merely to render a. small 
tribute of gratitude to these intrepid champions of our honor, 
but to render our feeble assistance towards promoting that na- 
tional feeling which their triumphs are calculated to inspire. 

Oliver Hazard Perry is the eldest son of Christopher Ray- 
mond Perry, Esq., of the United States Navy. He was born at 
Newport, Rhode Island, in August, 1785, and being early des- 
tined for the Navy, he entered the service in 1798, as midship- 
man, on board the sloop-of-war General Greene, then commanded 
by his father. When that ship went out of commission he was 
transferred to a squadron destined to the Mediterranean, where 
he served during the Tripolitan war. His extreme youth pre- 
vented his having an opportunity of distinguishing himself; but 
the faithfulness and intelligence with which he discharged the 
duties of his station, recommended him greatly to the favor 
s>f his superior officers ; while his private virtues, and the 
manly dignity of his deportment, commanded the friendship 
and respect of his associates. 



COMMODORE PERKY. 75 

On returning from the Mediterranean he continued sedu- 
lously attentive to his profession, and though the reduction of 
the Navy, and the neglect into which it fell during an interval 
of peace, disheartened many of the officers, and occasioned 
several to resign, yet he determined to adhere to its fortunes, 
confident that it must at some future period rise to importance. 
It would be little interesting to enumerate the different vessels 
in which he served, or to trace his advances through the regu- 
lar grades. In 1810, we find he was ordered to the United 
States schooner Revenge, as lieutenant commandant. This 
vessel was attached to the squadron of Commodore Rodgers, 
at New London, and employed in cruising in the Sound, to 
enforce the Embargo Act. In the following spring he had the 
misfortune to lose the Revenge on Watch Hill Reef, opposite 
Stoney Town. He had sailed from Newport, late in the even- 
ing, for New London, with an easterly wind, accompanied by 
a fog. In the morning he found himself enveloped in a thick 
mist, with a considerable swell going. In this situation, with- 
out any possibility of ascertaining where he was, or of guard- 
ing against surrounding dangers, the vessel was carried on the 
reef, and soon went to pieces. On this occasion Perry gave 
proofs of that admirable coolness and presence of mind for 
which he is remarkable. He used every precaution to save 
the guns and property, and was in a great measure successful. 
He got off all the crew in perfect safety, and was himself the 
last to leave the wreck. His conduct in respect to this dis- 
aster underwent examination by a court of inquiry, at his own 
request, and he was not merely acquitted of all blame, but 
highly applauded for the judgment, intrepidit}, and persever- 
ance he had displayed. The Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Ham- 
ilton, also wrote him a very complimentary letter on the occasion. 



7G COMMODORE PERRY. 

Shortly after this event he returned to Newport, being pccu 
liarly attracted thither by a tender attachment for Miss Mason, 
daughter of Dr. Mason, and niece of the Hon. Christopher 
Champlin of the United States Senate, — a lovely and interest- 
ing young lady, whom he soon after married. 

At the beginning of 1812, he was promoted to the rank of 
master and commander, and ordered to the command of the 
flotilla of gun-boats stationed at the harbor of New York. He 
remained on this station about a year ; during which time he 
employed himself diligently in disciplining his crew to serve 
either as landsmen or mariners, and brought his flotilla into 
an admirable state of preparation for active operations. 

The gun-boat service, however, is at best but an irksome 
employ. Nothing can be more dispiriting for ardent and daring 
minds than to be obliged to skulk about harbors and rivers, 
cramped up in these diminutive vessels, without the hope of 
exploit to atone for present inconvenience. Perry soon grew 
tired of this inglorious service, and applied to the Secretary of 
the Navy to be ordered to a more active station, and mentioned 
the Lakes as the one he should prefer. His request was im- 
mediately complied with, and he received orders to repair to 
Sackett's Harbor, Lake Ontario, with a body of mariners to 
reinforce the squadron under Commodore Chauncey. So popu- 
lar was he among the honest tars under his command, that no 
sooner was the order known than nearly the whole of the 
crews volunteered to accompany him. 

In a few days he was ready to depart, and tearing himself 
from the comforts of home, and the endearments of a young 
and beautiful wife and blooming child, he set off at the head 
of a large number of chosen seamen, on his expedition to the 
wilderness. The rivers being completely frozen over, they 



COMMODORE PERRY. 77 

were obliged to perform the journey by land, in the depth of 
winter. The greatest order and good humor, however, pre- 
vailed throughout the little band of adventurers, to whom the 
whole expedition seemed a kind of frolic, and who were de- 
lighted with what they termed a land cruise. 

Not long after the arrival of Perry at Sackett's Harbor, 
Commodore Chauncey, who entertained a proper opinion of 
his merits, detached him to Lake Erie, to take command of 
the squadron on that station, and to superintend the building 
of additional vessels. The American force at that time on 
the Lake consisted but of several small vessels; two of the 
best of which had recently been captured from the enemy in 
a gallant style by Captain Elliot, from under the very batteries 
of Maiden. The British force was greatly superior, and com- 
manded by Commodore Barclay, an able and well-tried officer. 
Commodore Perry immediately applied himself to increase his 
armament, and having ship carpenters from the Atlantic coast, 
and using extraordinary exertions, two brigs of twenty guns 
each were soon launched at Erie, the American port on the 
Lake. 

While the vessels were constructing, the British squadron 
hovered off the harbor, but offered no molestation. At length, 
his vessels being equipped and manned, on the 4th of August 
Commodore Perry succeeded in getting his squadron over the 
bar at the mouth of the harbor. The water on the bar was 
but five feet deep, and the large vessels had to be buoyed 
over ; this was accomplished in the face of the British, who 
fortunately did not think proper to make an attack. The 
next day he sailed in pursuit of the enemy, but returned on 
the 8th, without having encountered him. Being reinforced 
by the arrival of the brave Elliot, accompanied by several offi- 



78 COMMODORE PERKY. 

cers and eighty^nine sailors, he was enabled completely to 
man his squadron, and again set sail on the 12th, in quest 
of the enemy. On the 15th he arrived at Sandusky Bay, 
where the American army under General Harrison lay en- 
camped. From thence he cruised off Maiden, where the Brit- 
ish squadron remained at anchor, under the guns of the fort. 
The appearance of Perry's squadron spread great alarm on 
shore ; the women and children ran shrieking about the place, 
expecting an immediate attack. The Indians, we are told, 
looked en with astonishment, and urged the British to go out 
and fight. Finding the enemy not disposed to venture a bat- 
tle, Commodore Perry returned to Sandusky. 

Nothing of moment happened until the morning of the 10th 
of September. The American squadron were, at that time, 
lying at anchor in Put-in-Bay, and consisted of — 



Brig Lawrence, 


Com. Perry, 


20 guns. 


" Niagara, 


Capt. Elliot, 


20 " 


" Caledonia, 


Purser M'Grath, 


3 " 


Sch. Ariel, 


Lieutenant Packet, 


4 " 


" Scorpion, 


Sailing-Master Champlin, 


2 " 


" Somers, 


" " Almy, 


2 " and 2 swivels. 


" Tigress, 


Lieutenant Conklin, 


1 " 


" Porcupine, 


Mid. G. Senat, 


1 " 


Sloop Trippe, 


Lieutenant Smith, 


1 " 



54 guns. 

At sunrise they discovered the enemy, and immediately got 
under way and stood for him, with a light wind at southwest 
The British force consisted of 



Ship 


Detroit, 


19 guns, 


1 on pivot, 


and 2 howitzers. 


(( 


Queen Charlotte, 


17 " 


1 




Sch. 


Lady Prevost, 


13 " 


1 « 




Brig 


Hunter, 


10 " 







COMMODORE PERRY. 7$ 

Sloop Little Belt, 3 guns. 

Sch. Chippeway, 1 " 2 swivels. 

63 guns. 

At 10 a. m. the wind haled to the southeast and brought our 
squadron to windward. Commodore Perry then hoisted his 
Union Jack, having for a motto the dying words of the valiant 
Lawrence, " Don't give up the ship ! " It was received with 
repeated cheerings by the officers and crews. And now hav- 
ing formed his line he bore for the enemy ; who likewise 
cleared for action, and haled up his courses. It is deeply in- 
teresting to picture to ourselves the advances of these gallant 
and well-matched squadrons to a contest, where the strife must 
be obstinate and sanguinary, and the event decisive of the fate 
of almost an empire. 

The lightness of the wind occasioned them to approach each 
other but slowly, and prolonged the awful interval of suspense 
and anxiety that precedes a battle. This is the time when the 
stoutest heart beats quick, " and the boldest holds his breath ; " 
it is the still moment of direful expectation ; of fearful looking 
out for slaughter and destruction, when even the glow of 
pride and ambition is chilled for a while, and nature shudders 
at the awful jeopardy of existence. The very order and regu- 
larity of naval discipline heighten the dreadful quiet of the 
moment. No bustle, no noise prevails to distract the mind, 
except at intervals the shrill piping of the boatswain's whistle, 
or a murmuring whisper among the men, who, grouped around 
their guns, earnestly regard the movements of the foe, now and 
then stealing a wistful glance at the countenances of their com- 
manders. In this manner did the hostile squadrons approach 
each other, in mute watchfulness and terrible tranquillity ; 
when suddenly a bugle was sounded from on board the enemy's 



80 COMMODORE PERRY. 

ship Detroit, and loud huzzas immediately burst forth from all 
their crews. 

No sooner did the Lawrence come within reach of the en- 
emies' long guns, than they opened a heavy fire upon her, 
which, from the shortness of her guns, she was unable to re- 
turn. Commodore Perry, without waiting for his schooners, 
kept on his course in such gallant and determined style that 
the enemy supposed it was his intention to board. In a few 
minutes, having gained a nearer position, he opened his fire. 
The length of the enemies' guns, however, gave them vastly 
the advantage, and the Lawrence was excessively cut up with- 
out being able to do any great damage in return. Their shot 
pierced her sides in all directions, killing our men on the berth- 
deck and in the steerage, where they had been taken down to 
be dressed. One shot had nearly produced a fatal explosion ; 
passing through the light-room it knocked the snuff of the 
candle into the magazine ; fortunately the gunner happened to 
see it, and had the presence of mind to extinguish it imme- 
diately with his hand. 

Indeed, it seemed to be the enemies' plan to destroy the 
Commodore's ship, and thus throw the squadron into confu- 
sion. For this purpose their heaviest fire was directed at the 
Lawrence, and blazed incessantly upon it from their largest 
vessels. Finding the hazard of his situation, Perry made sail, 
and directed the other vessels to follow for the purpose of 
closing with the foe. The tremendous fire, however, to which 
he was exposed, soon cut away every brace and bowline, and 
the Lawrence became unmanageable. Even in this disastrous 
plight she sustained the action for upwards of two hours, 
vvithin canister distance, though for a great part of the time he 
could not get more than three guns to bear upon her antago- 



COMMODORE PERRY. 81 

nists. It was admirable to behold the perfect order and regu- 
larity that prevailed among her valiant and devoted crew, 
throughout this scene of horror. No trepidation, no confusion 
occurred, even for an instant ; as fast as the men were wounded 
they were carried below, and others stept into their places ; 
the dead remained where they fell until after the action. At 
this juncture the fortune of the battle trembled on a point, 
and the enemy believed the day their own. The Lawrence 
was reduced to a mere wreck ; her decks were streaming with 
blood, and covered with mangled limbs and the bodies of the 
slain; nearly the whole of her crew was either killed or 
wounded ; her guns were dismounted, and the Commodore and 
his officers helped to work the last that was capable of ser- 
vice. 

Amidst all this peril and disaster the youthful commander is 
said to have remained perfectly composed, maintaining a serene 
and cheerful countenance, uttering no passionate or agitated 
expression, giving out his orders with calmness and delibera- 
tion, and inspiriting every one around him by his magnanimous 
demeanor. 

At this crisis, finding the Lawrence was incapable of further 
service, and seeing the hazardous situation of the conflict, he 
formed the bold resolution of shifting his flag. Giving the ship, 
therefore, in charge to Lieutenant Yarnall, who had already 
distinguished himself by his bravery, he haled down his union, 
bearing the motto of Lawrence, and taking it under his arm, 
ordered to be put on board of the Niagara, which was then in 
close engagement. In leaving the Lawrence, he gave his pilot 
choice either to remain on board, or accompany him ; the faith- 
ful fellow told him " he 'd stick by him to the last," and jumped 
into the boat. He went off from the ship in his usual gallant 



82 COMMODORE PERRY. 

manner, standing up in the stern of the boat, until the crew abso- 
lutely pulled him down among them. Broadsides were levelled 
at him, and small arms discharged by the enemy, two of whose 
vessels were within musket-shot, and a third one nearer. His 
brave shipmates who remained behind, stood watching him in 
breathless anxiety ; the balls struck around him and flew over 
his head in every direction ; but the same special providence that 
seems to have watched over the youthful hero throughout this 
desperate battle, conducted him safely through a shower of shot, 
and they beheld with transport his inspiring flag hoisted at the 
mast-head of the Niagara. No sooner was he on board than Cap- 
tain Elliot volunteered to put off in a boat and bring into action 
the schooners which had been kept astern by the lightness of the 
wind ; the gallant offer was accepted, and Elliot left the Niagara 
to put it in execution. 

About this time the Commodore saw, with infinite regret, the 
flag of the Lawrence come down. The event was unavoidable ; 
she had sustained the whole fury of the enemy, and was ren- 
dered incapable of defence ; any further show of resistance 
would but have been most uselessly and cruelly to have pro- 
voked carnage amonsf the relics of her brave and mangled 
crew. The enemy, however, were not able to take possession 
of her, and subsequent circumstances enabled her again to hoist 
her flag. 

Commodore Perry now made signal for close action, and the 
small vessels got out their sweeps and made all sail. Finding 
that the Niagara was but little injured, he determined, if pos- 
sible, to break the enemy's line. He accordingly bore up and 
passed ahead of the two ships and brig, giving them a raking 
fire from his starboard guns, and also to a large schooner and 
sloop from his larboard side at half-pistol shot. Having passed 



COMMODORE PERRY. 83 

the whole squadron, he luffed up and laid his ship alongside the 
British commodore. The smaller vessels under the direction of 
Captain Elliot having, in the mean time, got within grape and 
canister distance, and keeping up a well directed fire, the whole 
of the enemy struck excepting two small vessels which at- 
tempted to escape, but were taken. 

The engagement lasted about three hours, and never was 
victory more decisive and complete. The captured squadron, 
as has been shown, exceded ours in weight of metal and num- 
ber of guns. Their crews were also more numerous; ours 
were a motley collection, where there were some good seamen, 
but eked out with soldiers, volunteers, and boys, and many were 
on the sick-list. More prisoners were taken than we had men 
to guard. The loss on both sides was severe. Scarcely any of 
the Lawrence's crew escaped unhurt. Among those slain was 
Lieutenant Brooks, of the marines, a gay and elegant young 
officer, full of spirit, of amiable manners, and remarkable for 
his personal beauty. Lieutenant Yarnall, though repeatedly 
wounded, refused to quit the deck during the whole of the ac- 
tion. Commodore Perry, notwithstanding that he was con- 
tinually in the most exposed situations of the battle, escaped 
uninjured ; he wore an ordinary seaman's dress, which, perhaps, 
prevented him from being picked off by the enemies' sharp- 
shooters. He had a younger brother with him on board the 
Lawrence as midshipman, who was equally fortunate in receiv- 
ing no injury, though his shipmates fell all around him. Two 
Indian chiefs had been stationed in the tops of the Detroit to 
shoot down our officers, but when the action became warm, so 
panic-struck were they with the terrors of the scene, and the 
strange perils that surrounded them, that they fled precipitately 
to the hold of the ship, where they were found after the battle 



84 COMMODORE PERRY. 

in a state of utter consternation. The bodies of several other 
Indians are said to have been found the next day on the shores 
of the Lake, supposed to have been slain during the engage- 
ment and thrown overboard. 

It is impossible to state the number of killed on board the 
enemy. It must, however, have been very great, as their ves- 
sels were literally cut to pieces ; and the masts of their two 
principal ships so shattered that the first gale blew them over- 
board. Commodore Barclay, the British commander, certainly 
did himself honor by the brave and obstinate resistance which 
he made. He is a fine-looking officer, of about thirty-six years 
of age. He has seen much service, having been desperately 
wounded in the battle of Trafalgar, and afterwards losing an 
arm in another engagement with the French. In the present 
battle he was twice carried below, on account of his wounds. 
While below the second time, his officer came down and told 
him that they must strike, as the ships were cut to pieces, and 
the men could not be kept to their guns. Commodore Barclay 
was then carried on deck, and after taking a view of their sit- 
uation, and finding all chance of success was over, reluctantly 
gave orders to strike. 

We have thus endeavored to lay before our readers as clear 
an account of this important battle as could be gathered from 
the scanty documents that have reached us, though sketched 
out, we are sensible, with a hand but little skilled in naval 
affairs. The leading facts, however, are all that a landsman can 
be expected to furnish, and we trust that this glorious affair will 
hereafter be recorded with more elaborate care and technical 
precision. There is, however, a distinctness of character about 
a naval victory that meets the capacity of every mind. There 
is such a simple unity in it ; it is so well defined, so complete 



COMMODORE PERRY. 85* 

within itself, so rounded by space, so free from those intrica- 
cies and numerous parts that perplex us in an action on land, 
that the meanest intellect can fully grasp and comprehend it. 
And then, too, the results are so apparent. A victory on land is 
liable to a thousand misrepresentations ; retreat is often called 
falling back, and abandoning the field called taking a new posi- 
tion ; so that the conqueror is often defrauded of half the credit 
of his victory ; but the capture or destruction of a ship is not 
to be mistaken, and a squadron towed triumphantly into port, is 
a notorious fact that admits of no contradiction. 

In this battle, we trust, incontrovertible proof is given, if such 
proof were really wanted, that the success of our Navy does not 
arise from chance, or superiority of force ; but from the cool, 
deliberate courage, the intelligent minds and naval skill of our 
officers, the spirit of our seamen, and the excellent discipline 
of our ships ; from principles, in short, which must insure a 
frequency of prosperous results, and give permanency to the 
reputation we have acquired. "We have been rapidly adding 
trophy to trophy, and successively driving the enemy from 
every excuse in which he sought to shelter himself from the 
humiliation of defeat ; and after having perfectly established 
our capability of fighting and conquering in single ships, we 
have now gone further, and shown that it is possible for us 
to face the foe in squadron, and vanquish him even though 
superior in force. 

In casting our eye over the details of this engagement, we 
are struck with the prominent part which the commander 
takes in the contest. We realize in his dauntless exposure 
and individual prowess, what we have read in heroic story, 
of the warrior, streaming like a meteor through the fight, 

and working wonders with his single arm. The fate of the 

4* 



86 COMMODORE PERRY. 

combat seemed to rest upon his sword ; he was the master 
spirit that directed the storm of battle, moving amid flames. 
and smoke, and death, and mingling wherever the struggle 
was most desperate and deadly. After sustaining in the 
Lawrence the whole blaze of the enemy's cannonry; after 
fighting until all around him was wreck and carnage ; we 
behold him, looking forth from his shattered deck, with un- 
ruffled countenance, on the direful perils that environed him, 
calculating with wary eye the chances of the battle, and 
suddenly launching forth on the bosom of the deep, to shift 
his flag on board another ship, then in the hottest of the 
action. This was one of those master-strokes bv which great 
events are achieved, and great characters stamped, as it were, 
at a single blow, — which bespeak the rare combination of the 
genius to conceive, the promptness to decide, and the boldness 
to execute. Most commanders have such glorious chances 
for renown, some time or another, within their reach ; but it 
requires the nerve of a hero to grasp the perilous opportunity. 
We behold Perry following up his daring movement with 
sustained energy, — dashing into the squadron of the enemy, — 
breaking their line, — raking starboard and larboard, — and 
in this brilliant style achieving a consummate victory. 

But if we admire his presence of mind and dauntless valor 
in the hour of danger, we are no less delighted with his mod- 
esty and self-command amidst the flush of triumph. A 
courageous heart may carry a man stoutly through the battle, 
but it argues some strong qualities of head to drain unmoved 
the intoxicating cup of victory. The first care of Perry was 
to attend to the comfort of the suffering crews of both squad- 
rons. The sick and wounded were landed as soon as possi- 
ble, and every means taken to alleviate the miseries of their 



COMMODORE PERRY. 87 

situation. The officers who had fallen, on both sides, were 
buried on Sunday morning, on an island in the Lake, with the 
honors of war. To the surviving officers he advanced a loan 
of one thousand dollars, out of his own limited purse ; but, 
in short, his behavior in this respect is best expressed in the 
words of Commodore Barclay, who, with generous warmth and 
frankness, has declared that " The conduct of Perry towards 
the captive officers and men was sufficient, of itself, to im- 
mortalize him ! " 

The letters which he wrote announcing the intelligence were 
remarkably simple and laconic. To the Secretary of the Navy 
he observes, " It has pleased the Almighty to give to the arms 
of the United States a signal victory over their enemies on 
this Lake. The British squadron, consisting of two ships, 
two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop, have this moment sur- 
rendered to the force under my command, after a sharp con- 
flict." This has been been called an imitation of Nelson's 
letter after the battle of the Nile ; but it was choosing a noble 
precedent, and the important national results of the victory 
justified the language. Independent of the vast accession of 
glory to our flag, this conquest insured the capture of Detroit, 
the rout of the British armies, the subjugation of the 
whole peninsula of Upper Canada, and, if properly followed 
up, the triumphant success of our northern war. Well might 
he say " It has pleased the Almighty," when, by this achieve- 
ment, he beheld immediate tranquillity restored to an immense 
extent of country. Mothers no longer shrunk aghast, and 
clasped their infants to their breasts, when they heard the 
shaking of the forest or the howling of the blast ; the aged 
sire no longer dreaded the shades of night, lest ruin should 
burst upon him in the hour of repose, and his cottage be laid 



88 COMMODORE TERRY. 

desolate by the fire-brand and the scalping-knife ; Michigan 
was rescued from the dominion of the sword, and quiet and 
security once more settled on the harassed frontiers, from 
Huron to Niagara. 

But we are particularly pleased with his subsequent letter 
giving the particulars of the battle. It is so chaste, so mod- 
erate and perspicuous ; equally free from vaunting exultation 
and affected modesty ; neither obtruding himself upon notice, 
nor pretending to keep out of sight. His own individual ser- 
vices may be gathered from the letter, though not expressly 
mentioned ; indeed, where the fortune of the day depended so 
materially upon himself, it was impossible to give a faithful 
narrative without rendering himself conspicuous. 

We are led to notice these letters thus particularly, because 
that we find the art of letter-writing is an accomplishment 
as rare as it is important among our military gentlemen. We 
are tired of the valor of the pen, and the victories of the ink- 
horn. There is a common French proverb, " Grand parleur, 
mauvais combattant," which we could wish to see introduced 
into our country, and engraven on the swords of our officers. We 
wish to see them confine themselves in their letters to simple 
facts, neither swaggering before battle nor vaunting after- 
wards. It is unwise to boast before, for the event may prove 
disastrous ; and it is superfluous to boast afterwards, for the 
event speaks for itself. He who promises nothing, may with 
safety perform nothing, and will receive praise if he perform 
but little ; but he who promises much will receive small credit 
unless he perform miracles. If a commander have done well, 
he may be sure the public will find it out, and their gratitude 
will be in proportion to his modesty. Admiration is a coin 
which, if left to ourselves, we lavish profusely, but we always 
close the hand when dunned for it. 



COMMODORE PERRY. 89 

Commodore Perry, like most of our naval officers, is yet in 
the prime of youth. He is of a manly and prepossessing ap 
pearance ; mild and unassuming in his address, amiable in his 
disposition, and of great firmness and decision. Though early 
launched among the familiar scenes of naval life, (and no- 
where is familiarity more apt to be licentious and encroaching,) 
yet the native gentility and sober dignity of his deportment 
always chastened, without restraining, the freedom of intimacy 
It is pleasing thus to find public services accompanied by pri- 
vate virtues ; to discover no drawbacks on our esteem, no base 
alloy in the man we are disposed to admire ; but a character 
full of moral excellence, of high-minded courtesy, and pure, 
unsullied honor. 

Were anything wanting to perpetuate the fame of this vic- 
tory, it would be sufficiently memorable from the scene where 
it was fought. This war has been distinguished by new and 
peculiar characteristics. Naval warfare has been carried into 
the interior of a continent, and navies, as if by magic, launched 
from among the depths of the forest. The bosoms of peaceful 
lakes which, but a short time since, were scarcely navigated by 
man, except to be skimmed by the light canoe of the savage, 
have all at once been ploughed by hostile ships. The vast 
silence that had reigned for ages on those mighty waters, was 
broken by the thunder of artillery, and the affrighted savage 
stared with amazement from his covert, at the sudden appari- 
tion of a sea-fight amid the solitudes of the wilderness. 

The peal of war has once sounded on that lake, but proba- 
bly will never sound again. The last roar of cannonry that 
died along her shores was the expiring note of British domi- 
nation. Those vast internal seas will, perhaps, never again 
be the separating space between contending nations ; but will 



90 COMMODORE PERRY. 

be embosomed within a mighty empire ; and this victory, which 
decided their fate, will stand unrivalled and alone, deriving 
lustre and perpetuity from its singleness. 

In future times, when the shores of Erie shall hum with 
busy population ; when towns and cities shall brighten where 
now extend the dark and tangled forest ; when ports shall 
spread their arms, and lofty barks shall ride where now the 
canoe is fastened to the stake ; when the present age shall 
have grown into venerable antiquity, and the mists of fable 
begin to gather round its history ; then will the inhabitants of 
Canada look back to this battle we record as one of the ro- 
mantic achievements of the days of yore. It will stand first on 
the page of their local legends, and in the marvellous tales of 
the borders. The fisherman, as he loiters along the beach, 
will point to some half buried cannon, corroded with the rust 
of time, and will speak of ocean warriors that came from the 
shores of the Atlantic ; while the boatman, as he trims his 
sail to the breeze, will chant in rude ditties the name of Perry 
— the early hero of Lake Erie. 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

Davii> Porter, the eldest son of Captain David Porter, 
was born in Boston on the 1st of February, 1780. His father 
was an officer in our navy during the Revolutionary War, and 
distinguished himself on various occasions by his activity, en- 
terprise, and daring spirit. Being necessarily absent from 
home for the greater part of his time, the charge of his infant 
family devolved almost entirely on his wife. She was a pious 
and intelligent woman ; the friend and instructor of her chil- 
dren, teaching them not merely by her precepts, but by her 
amiable and virtuous example. 

Soon after the conclusion of the war, Captain Porter re- 
moved with his household to Baltimore, where he took com- 
mand of the revenue-cutter Active. Here in the bosom of his 
family he would indulge in the veteran's foible of recount- 
ing past scenes of peril and adventure, and talking over the 
wonders and vicissitudes that checker a sea-faring life. Little 
David would sit for hours and listen and kindle at these mar- 
vellous tales, while his father, perceiving his own love of 
enterprise springing up in the bosom of the lad, took every 
means to cherish it, and to inspire him with a passion for the 
sea. He at the same time gave him all the education and in- 
struction that his limited means afforded, and being afterwards 
in command of a vessel in the West India trade, proposed to 
take him a voyage by way of initiating him into the life of a 



92 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

sailor. The constitution of the latter being feeble and delicate 
excited all the apprehensions of a tender mother, who re- 
monstrated with maternal solicitude against exposing the puny 
stripling to the dangers and hardships of so rude a life. Her 
objections, however, were either obviated or overruled, and at 
the age of sixteen he sailed with his father for the West Indies, 
in the schooner Eliza. While at the port of Jeremie, in the 
island of St. Domingo, a press-gang endeavored to board the 
vessel in search for men ; they were bravely repelled with the 
loss of several killed and w T ounded on both sides ; one man 
shot down close by the side of young Porter. This affair ex- 
cited considerable attention at the time. A narrative of it 
appeared in the public papers, and much praise was given to 
Captain Porter for the gallant vindication of his flag. 

In the course of his second voyage, which he performed as 
mate of a ship, from Baltimore to St. Domingo, young Porter 
had a further taste of the vicissitudes of a sailor's life. He 
was twice impressed by the British, and each time effected his 
escape, but was so reduced in purse as to be obliged to work 
his passage home in the winter season, destitute of necessary 
clothing. In this forlorn condition he had to perform duty on 
a cold and stormy coast, where every spray was converted 
instantaneously into a sheet of ice. It would appear almost 
incredible that his feeble frame, little inured to hardship, 
could have sustained so much, were it not known how great- 
ly the exertions of the body are supported by mental excite- 
ment. 

Scarcely had he recovered from his late fatigues when he 
applied for admission into the Navy ; and on receiving a,mid- 
shipman's warrant, immediately joined the frigate Constellation, 
Commodore Truxton. In the action with the French frigate 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 93 

Insurgent, Porter was stationed in the foretop, and distin- 
guished himself by his good conduct. Want of friends alone 
prevented his promotion at the time. When Commodore 
Barron was appointed to the command of the Constellation, 
Porter was advanced to the rank of lieutenant solely on ac- 
count of his merit, having no friends or connections capable of 
urging his fortunes. He was ordered to join the United States 
schooner Experiment, under Captain Maley, to be employed on 
the West India station. During the cruise they had a long and 
obstinate engagement with a number of brigand barges in the 
Bight of Leogane, which afforded him another opportunity of 
bringing himself into notice. He was also frequently em- 
ployed in boat expeditions to cut out vessels, in which he 
displayed much coolness and address. Commodore Talbot, who 
commanded on that station, gave him charge of the Amphitrite, 
a small pilot-boat prize schooner mounting five small swivels 
taken from the tops of the Constellation, and manned with 
fifteen hands. Not Ions after taking this command he fell in 
with a French privateer mounting a long twelve-pounder and 
several swivels, having a crew of forty men, and accompanied 
by a prize-ship and a large barge with thirty men armed with 
swivels. Notwithstanding the great disparity of force, Porter 
ordered his vessel to be laid alongside the privateer. The 
contest was arduous, and for some time doubtful, for in the 
commencement of the action he lost his rudder, which rendered 
the schooner unmanageable. The event, however, excused the 
desperateness of the attack, for after an obstinate and bloody 
resistance the privateer surrendered with the loss of seven killed 
and fifteen wounded. Not a man of Porter's crew was killed : 
several, however, were wounded, and his vessel was much in- 
jured. The prize was also taken, but the barge escaped. 



94 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

The conduct of Lieutenant Porter in this gallant little affair 
was highly applauded by his commander. 

Shortly after his return to the United States he sailed, as 
first lieutenant, in the Experiment, commanded by Captain 
Charles Stewart. They were again stationed in the West 
Indies, and afforded great protection to the American com- 
merce in that quarter. They had several engagements with 
French privateers, and were always successful, insomuch that 
they became the terror of those marauders of the ocean, and 
effectually controlled their rapacity and kept them quiet in 
port. The gallant and lamented Trippe was second lieutenant 
of the Experiment at the time. 

When the first squadron was ordered for the Mediterranean, 
Porter sailed as first lieutenant of the schooner Eiterprise, 
Captain Stewart. In this cruise they encountered a Tripolitan 
corsair of very superior force ; a severe battle ensued in which 
the enemy suffered great slaughter, and was compelled to sur- 
render, while our ship received but little injury. In this 
brilliant action Porter acquired much reputation from the con- 
spicuous part he acted. He afterwards served on board of 
different ships on the Mediterranean station, and distinguished 
himself by his intrepidity and zeal whenever an opportunity 
presented. On one occasion he commanded an expedition of 
boats sent to destroy some vessels laden with wheat, at anchor 
in the harbor of old Tripoli ; the service was promptly and 
effectually performed ; in the engagement he received a mus- 
ket-ball through his left thigh. 

Shortly after recovering from his wound he was transposed 
from the New York to the Philadelphia, Captain Bainbridge, 
as first lieutenant. The frigate was then lying at Gibraltar, 
when he joined her in September, 1803. She soon after 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 95 

sailed for the blockade of Tripoli. No event took place 
worthy of mention until the 31st of October. Nearly a week 
previous to this ill-fated day, the weather had been tem- 
pestuous, which rendered it prudent to keep the ship off the 
land. The 31st opened with all the splendor of a Sicilian 
morning; the promise of a more delightful day never ap- 
peared. The land was just observed, when a sail was descried 
making for the harbor, with a pleasant easterly breeze. It 
was soon ascertained to be an armed ship of the enemy, and 
all sail was set in chase. After an ineffectual pursuit of 
several leagues, Captain Bainbridge had just given orders to 
hale off, when the frigate grounded. Every expedient that 
skill or courage could devise to float or defend her, was succes- 
sively resorted to, but in vain. The particulars of this un- 
fortunate affair are too generally known to need a minute 
recital ; it is sufficient to add that this noble ship and her 
gallant crew were surrendered to a barbarous and dastardly 
enemy, whose only motive in warfare is the hope of plunder. 
Throughout the long and dreary confinement, which ensued, 
in the dungeons of Tripoli, Porter never suffered himself for 
a moment to sink into despondency ; but supported the galling 
indignities and hardships of his situation with equanimity and 
even cheerfulness. A seasonable supply of books served to 
beguile the hours of imprisonment, and enable him even to 
turn them to advantage. He closely applied himself to the 
study of ancient and modern history, biography, the French 
language, and drawing ; in which art, so useful to a seaman, 
he has made himself a considerable proficient. He also sed- 
uously cultivated the theory of his profession, and improved 
the junior officers by his frequent in> tructions ; representing 
the manoeuvres of fleets in battle by means of small boards 



96 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

ingeniously arranged. He was active in promoting any plan 
of labor or amusement that could ameliorate the situation or 
dispel the gloomy reflections of his companions. By these 
means captivity was robbed of its heaviest evils, that dull mo- 
notony that wearies the spirits, and that mental inactivity that 
engenders melancholy and hypochondria. 

An incident which occurred during his confinement deserves 
to be mentioned, as being highly creditable to Lieutenant 
Porter. Under the rooms occupied by the officers was a long 
dark passage, through which the American sailors, who were 
employed in public labor, frequently passed to different parts of 
the castle. Their conversation being repeatedly heard as they 
passed to and fro, some one made a small hole in the wall to 
communicate with them. For some days a constant inter- 
course was kept up, by sending down notes tied to a string. 
Some persons, however, indiscreetly entering into conversation 
with the seamen, were overheard, and information immediately 
carried to the Bashaw. In a few minutes the bolts of the 
prison door were heard to fly back with unwonted violence, 
and Sassi (chief officer of the castle) rushed furiously in. His 
features were distorted, and his voice almost inarticulate with 
passion. He demanded in a vehement tone of voice by whom 
or whose authority the wall had been opened ; when Porter 
advanced with a firm step and composed countenance, and 
replied, "I alone am responsible." He was abruptly and 
rudely hurried from the prison, and the gate was again closed. 
This generous self-devotion, while it commanded the admira- 
tion of his companions, heightened their anxiety for his fate ; 
apprehend ng some act of violence from the impetuous temper 
and absolute power of the Bashaw. Their fears, however, 
were appeased by the return of Porter, after considerable 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 97 

detention ; having been dismissed without any further severity 
through the intercession of the minister Mahomet Dghies, 
who had on previous occasions shown a friendly disposition to- 
wards the prisoners. 

It is unnecessary here to dwell on the various incidents that 
occurred in this tedious captivity, and of the many ingenious 
and adventurous plans of escape, devised and attempted by our 
officers, in all which Porter took an active and prominent 
part. When peace was at length made, and they were re- 
stored to light and liberty, he embarked with his companions 
for Syracuse, where a court of inquiry was held on the loss of 
the Philadelphia. After an honorable acquittal he was ap- 
pointed to the command of the United States brig Enterprise, 
and soon after was ordered by Commodore Rodgers to proceed 
to Tripoli, with permission to cruise along the shore of Ben- 
gazi, and to visit the ruins of Leptis Magna, anciently a Roman 
colony. He was accompanied in this expedition by some of 
his friends, and after a short and pleasant passage, anchored 
near the latter place. They passed three days in wandering 
among the mouldering remains of Roman taste and grandeur ; 
and excavated in such places as seemed to promise a reward 
for their researches. A number of ancient coins and cameos 
were found, and, among other curiosities, were two statues in 
tolerable preservation, — the one a warrior, the other a female 
figure, of beautiful white marble and excellent workmanship. 
Verde antique pillars, of large size, formed of a single piece, 
and unbroken, were scattered along the shores. Near the 
harbor stood a lofty and elegant building, of which Lieutenant 
Porter took a drawing ; from its situation and form it was 
supposed to have been a Pharos. The awning under which 
the party dined was spread on the site, and among the fallen 



98 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

columns of a temple of Jupiter, and a zest was given to the 
repast by the classical ideas awakened by surrounding objects. 

While in command of the Enterprise, and at anchor in the 
port of Malta, an English sailor came alongside and insulted 
the officers and crew by abusive language ; Captain Porter 
overhearing the scurrilous epithets he vociferated, ordered a 
boatswain's mate to seize him and give him a flogging at the 
gangway. This well merited chastisement excited the indig- 
nation of the Governor of Malta, who considered it a daring 
outrage, and gave orders that the forts should not permit the 
Enterprise to depart. No sooner was Captain Porter informed 
of it, than he got his vessel ready for action, weighed anchor, 
and with lighted matches and every man at his station, with 
the avowed determination of firing upon the town if attacked, 
sailed between the batteries and departed unmolested. 

Shortly after this occurrence, in passing through the Straits 
of Gibraltar, he was attacked by twelve Spanish gun-boats, 
who either mistook, or pretended to mistake his vessel for a 
British brig. The calmness of the weather, the weight of 
their metal, and the acknowledged accuracy of their aim, made 
the odds greatly against him. As soon, however, as he was 
able to near them, they were assailed with such rapid and well- 
directed volleys as quickly compelled them to shear off. This 
affair took place in sight of Gibraltar, and in presence of 
several ships of the British navy ; it was, therefore, a matter 
of notoriety, and spoken of in terms of the highest applause. 

After an absence of five years, passed in unremitted and 
arduous service, Captain Porter returned to the United States, 
and shortly after was married to Miss Anderson, daughter of 
the member of Congress of that name from Pennsylvania. 
Being appointed to the command of the flotilla on the New 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 99 

Orleans station, he discharged, with faithfulness and activity, 
the irksome duty of enforcing the embargo and non-intercourse 
laws. He likewise performed an important service to his coun- 
try, by ferreting out and capturing a pirate, a native of France, 
who, in a small well-armed schooner, had for some time in- 
fested the Chesapeake ; and who, growing bolder by impunity, 
had committed many acts of depredation, until his maraudings 
became so serious as to attract the attention of Government. 

While commanding on the Orleans station, the father of 
Captain Porter died, an officer under his command. He had 
lived to see the wish of his heart fulfilled, in beholding his son 
a skilful and enterprising sailor, rising rapidly in his profession, 
and in the estimation of his country. 

The climate of New Orleans disagreeing with the health of 
Captain Porter and his family, he solicited to be ordered to 
some other station, and was, accordingly, appointed to the com- 
mand of the Essex frigate, at Norfolk. 

At the time of the declaration of war against England, the 
Essex was undergoing repairs at New York, and the celerity 
with which she was fitted for sea reflected great credit on her 
commander. On the 3d of July, 1812, he sailed from Sandy 
Hook on a cruise, which was not marked by any incident of 
consequence, excepting the capture of the British sloop-of- 
war Alert, Captain Laugharne. Either undervaluing the un- 
tried prowess of our tars, or mistaking the force of the Essex, 
she ran down on her weather quarter, gave three cheers and 
commenced an action. In a few minutes she struck her colors, 
being cut to pieces, with three men wounded, and seven feet 
water in her hold. To relieve himself from the great number 
of prisoners, taken in this and former prizes, Captain Porter 
made a cartel of the Alert, with orders to proceed to St. Johns, 

LofC. 



100 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

Newfoundland, and thence to New York. She arrived safe, 
being the first ship-of-war taken from the enemy, and her flag 
the first British fla^ sent to the seat of Government during the 
present war. 

Having returned to the United States and refitted, he again 
proceeded to sea, from the Delaware, on the 27th of October, 
1812, and repaired, agreeably to instructions from Commo- 
dore Bainbridge, to the coast of Brazil, where different places 
of rendezvous had been arranged between them. In the course 
of his cruise on this coast he captured his Britannic Majesty's 
packet Norton, and after taking out of her about 11,000 pounds 
sterling in specie, ordered her for America. Hearing of Com- 
modore Bainbridge's victorious action with the Java, which 
would oblige him to return to port, and of the capture of the 
Hornet by the Montague, and learning that there was a consid- 
erable augmentation of British force on the coast, and several 
ships in pursuit of him, he abandoned his hazardous cruising 
ground, and stretched away to the southward, scouring the 
coast as far as Rio de la Plata. From thence he shaped his 
course for the Pacific Ocean, and, after suffering greatly from 
want of provisions, and heavy gales off Cape Horn, arrived at 
Valparaiso, on the 14th of March, 1813. Having victualled 
his ship, he ran clown the coast of Chili and Peru, and fell in 
with a Peruvian corsair, having on board twenty-four Ameri- 
cans, as prisoners, the crews of two whaling ships, which she 
had taken on the coast of Chili. The Peruvian captain justi- 
fied his conduct on the plea of being an ally of Great Britain, 
and the expectation likewise of a speedy war between Spain 
and the United States. Finding him resolved to persist in 
similar aggressions, Captain Porter threw all his guns and am- 
munition into the sea, liberated the Americans, and wrote a 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 101 

respectful letter to the viceroy explaining his reasons for so 
doing, which he delivered to the captain. He then proceeded 
to Lima, and luckilv recaptured one of the American vessels 
as she was entering the port. 

After this he cruised for several months in the Pacific, inflict- 
ing immense injury on the British commerce in those waters 
He was particularly destructive to the shipping employed in 
the spermaceti whale fishery. A great number with valuable 
cargoes were captured ; two were given up to the prisoners ; 
three sent to Valparaiso and laid up; three sent to America; 
one of them he retained as a store-ship, and another he equipped 
with twenty guns, called her the Essex, Jr., and gave the 
command of her to Lieutenant Downes. Most of these ships 
mo anted several guns, and had numerous crews ; and as sev- 
eral of them were captured by boats or by prizes, the officers 
and men of the Essex had frequent opportunities of showing 
their skill and courage, and of acquiring experience and con- 
fidence in naval conflict. 

Having now a little squadron under his command, Captain 
Porter became a complete terror in those seas. As his nu- 
merous prizes supplied him abundantly with provisions, cloth- 
ing, medicine, and naval stores of every description, he was 
enabled for a long time to keep the sea, without sickness or 
inconvenience to his crew ; living entirely on the enemy, and 
being enabled to make considerable advances of pay to his 
officers and crew without drawing on Government. The unexr 
ampled devastation achieved by his daring enterprises, not 
only spread alarm throughout the ports of the Pacific, but even 
occasioned great uneasiness in Great Britain. The merchants, 
who had any property afloat in this quarter, trembled with ap- 
prehension for its fate ; the underwriters groaned at the cam- 



i02 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

logue of captures brought by every advice, while the pride of 
the nation was sorely incensed at beholding a single frigate 
lording it over the Pacific, roving about the ocean in saucy 
defiance of their thousand ships ; revelling in the spoils of 
boundless wealth, and almost banishing the British flag from 
those regions, where it had so long waved proudly predom- 
inant, 

Numerous ships were sent out to the Pacific in pursuit of 
him ; others were ordered to cruise in the China seas, off New 
Zealand, Timor, and New Holland, and a frigate sent to the 
Eiver La Plata. The manner in which Captain Porter cruised, 
however, completely baffled pursuit. Keeping in the open seas, 
or lurking among the numerous barren and desolate islands 
that form the Gallipagos group, and never touching on the 
American coast, he left no traces by which he could be fol- 
lowed ; rumor, while it magnified his exploits, threw his pur- 
suers at fault; they were distracted by vague accounts of 
captures made at different places, and of frigates supposed to 
be the Essex hovering at the same time off different coasts 
and haunting different islands. 

In the mean while Porter, though wrapped in mystery and 
uncertainty himself, yet received frequent and accurate ac- 
counts of his enemies, from the various prizes which he had 
taken. Lieutenant Downes, also, who had convoyed the prizes 
to Valparaiso, on his return, brought advices of the expected 
arrival of Commodore Hillyar in the Phoebe frigate, rating 
thirty-six guns, accompanied by two sloops-of-war. Glutted 
with spoil and havoc, and sated with the easy and inglorious 
captures of merchantmen, Captain Porter now felt eager for an 
opportunity to meet the enemy on equal terms, and to signalize 
his cruise by some brilliant achievement. Having been nearly 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 103 

a year at sea, he found that his ship would require some re- 
pairs, to enable her to face the foe ; he repaired, therefore, 
accompanied by several of his prizes, to the Island of Nooa- 
heevah, one of the Washington group, discovered by a Captain 
Ingraham of Boston. Here he landed, took formal possession 
of the island in the name of the Government of the United 
States, and gave it the name of Madison's Island. He found it 
large, populous, and fertile, abounding with the necessaries of 
life ; the natives in the vicinity of the harbor which he had 
chosen received him in the most friendly manner, and supplied 
him with abundance of provisions. During his stay at this 
place he had several encounters with some hostile tribes on 
the island, whom he succeeded in reducing to subjection. 
Having calked and completely overhaled the ship, made for 
her a new set of water-casks, and taken on board from the 
prizes provisions and stores for upwards of four months, he 
sailed for the coast of Chili on the 12th December, 1813. Pre- 
vious to sailing he secured the three prizes which had accom- 
panied him, under the guns of a battery erected for their pro- 
tection, and left them in charge of Lieutenant Gamble of the 
marines and twenty-one men, with orders to proceed to Val- 
paraiso after a certain period. 

After cruising on the coast of Chili without success, he pro- 
ceeded to Valparaiso, in hopes of falling in with Commodore 
Hillyar, or, if disappointed in this wish, of capturing some mer 
chant ships said to be expected from England. "While at an- 
chor at this port Commodore Hillyar arrived, having long been 
searching in vain for the Essex, and almost despairing of ever 
meeting with her. Contrary to the expectations of Captain 
Porter, however, Commodore Hillyar, beside his own frigate, 
superior in itself to the Essex, was accompanied by the Cherub 



104 CArTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

sloop-of-war, strongly armed and manned. These ships, hav- 
ing been sent out expressly to seek for the Essex, were in prime 
order and equipment, with picked crews, and hoisted flags 
bearing the motto, " God and country, British sailors' best 
rights : traitors offend both" This was in opposition to Por- 
ter's motto of " Free trade and sailors' rights," and the latter 
part of it suggested doubtless, by error industriously cherished, 
that our crews are chiefly composed of English seamen. In 
reply to tfeis motto Porter hoisted at his mizen, " God, our 
country, and liberty : tyrants offend them." On entering the 
harbor the Phoebe fell foul of the Essex in such manner as to 
lay her at the mercy of Captain Porter ; out of respect, how- 
eve^ to the neutrality of the port, he did not take advantage 
of her exposed situation. This forbearance was afterwards 
acknowledged by Commodore Hillyar, and he passed his word 
of honor to observe like conduct while they remained in port. 
They continued therefore, while in harbor and on shore, in the 
mutual exchange of courtesies and kind offices that should 
characterize the private intercourse between civilized and gen- 
erous enemies. And the crews of the respective ships often 
mingled together and passed nautical jokes and pleasantries 
from one to the other. 

On getting their provisions on board, the Phoebe and Cherub 
went off the port, where they cruised for six weeks, rigorously 
blockading Captain Porter. Their united force amounted to 
81 guns and 500 men, in addition to which they took on board 
the crew of an English letter of marque lying in port. The 
force of the Essex consisted of but 46 guns, all of which, ex- 
cepting six long twelves, were 32-pound carronades, only ser- 
viceable in close fighting. Her crew, having been much re- 
duced by the manning of prizes, amounted to but 255 men. 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 105 

The Essex, Jr., being only intended as a store-ship, mounted 
ten 18-pound carronades and ten short sixes, with a comple- 
ment of only 60 men. 

This vast superiority of force on the part of the enemy 
prevented all chance of encounter, on anything like equal 
terms, unless by express covenant between the commanders. 
Captain Porter, therefore, endeavored repeatedly to provoke 
a challenge, (the inferiority of his frigate to the Phoebe not 
justifying him in making the challenge himself,) but without 
effect. He tried frequently also to bring the Phoebe into single 
action; but this Commodore Hillyar warily avoided, and al- 
ways kept his ships so close together as to frustrate Captain 
Porter's attempts. This conduct of Commodore Hillyar has 
been sneered at by many, as unworthy a brave officer ; but it 
should be considered that he had more important objects to 
effect than the mere exhibition of individual or national prowess. 
His instructions were to crush a noxious foe, destructive to 
,he commerce of his country ; he was furnished with a force 
competent to this duty; and having the enemy once within 
his power, he had no right to waive his superiority, and, by 
meeting him on equal footing, give him a chance to conquer, 
and continue his work of destruction. 

Finding it impossible to bring the enemy to equal combat, 
and fearing the arrival of additional force, which he under- 
stood was on the way, Captain Porter determined to put to 
sea the first opportunity that should present. A rendezvous 
was accordingly appointed for the Essex, Jr., and having 
ascertained by repeated trials that the Essex was a superior 
sailer to either of the blockading ships, it was agreed that she 
should let the enemy chase her off; thereby giving the Essex, 
Jr., an opportunity of escaping. 



106 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

On the next day, the 28th of March, the wind came on to 
blow fresh from the southward, and the Essex parted her lar- 
board cable and dragged her starboard anchor directly out to 
sea. Not a moment was lost in getting sail on the ship ; but 
perceiving that the enemy was close in with the point forming 
the west side of the bay, and that there was a possibility of 
passing to windward, and escaping to sea by superior sailing, 
Captain Porter resolved to hazard the attempt. He accord- 
ingly took in his top-gallant sails and braced up for the pur- 
pose ; but most unfortunately on rounding the point, a heavy 
squall struck the ship and carried away her main top-mast, 
precipitating the men who were aloft into the sea, who were 
drowned. Both ships now gave chase, and the crippled state 
of his ship left Porter no alternative but to endeavor to regain 
the port. Finding it impossible to get back to the common 
anchorage, he ran close into a small bay about three quarters 
of a mile to leeward of the battery, on the east of the harbor, 
and let go his anchor within pistol-shot of the shore. Suppos- 
ing the enemy would, as formerly, respect the neutrality of the 
place, he considered himself secure, and thought only of re- 
pairing the damages he had sustained. The wary and men- 
acing approach of the hostile ships, however, displaying their 
motto flags, and having jacks at all their masts' heads, soon 
showed him the real danger of his situation. With all possi- 
ble dispatch he got his ship ready for action, and endeavored 
to get a spring on his cable, but had not succeeded, when, at 
54 minutes past 3 p. m., the enemy commenced an attack. 

At first the Phoebe lay herself under his stern and the Cherub 
m his starboard bow ; but the latter soon finding herself ex- 
posed to a hot fire, bore up and ran under his stern also, 
where both ships kept up a severe and raking fire. Captain 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 107 

Porter succeeded three different times in getting springs on 
his cables, for the purpose of bringing his broadside to bear on 
the enemy, but they were as often shot away by the excessive 
fire to which he was exposed. He was obliged, therefore, to 
rely for defence against this tremendous attack merely on 
three long twelve-pounders, which he had run out of the stern 
ports, and which were worked with such bravery and skill as 
in half an hour to do great injury to both the enemy's ships 
and induce them to hale off and repair damages. It was evi- 
dently the intention of Commodore Hillyar to risk nothing from 
the daring courage of his antagonist, but to take the Essex at 
as cheap a rate as possible. All his manoeuvres were deliber- 
ate and wary ; he saw his antagonist completely at his mercy, 
and prepared to cut him up in the safest and surest manner. 
In the mean time the situation of the Essex was galling and 
provoking in the extreme ; crippled and shattered, with many 
killed and wounded, she lay awaiting the convenience of the 
enemy, to renew the scene of slaughter, with scarce a hope of 
escape or revenge. Her brave crew, however, in place of 
being disheartened, were aroused to desperation, and by hoist- 
ing ensigns in their rigging, and jacks in different parts of the 
ship, evinced their defiance and determination to hold out to 
the last. 

The enemy having repaired his damages, now placed himself 
with both his ships, on the starboard quarter of the Essex, out 
of reach of her carronades, and where her stern guns could not 
be brought to bear. Here he kept up a most destructive fire, 
which it was not in Captain Porter's power to return; the 
latter, therefore, saw no hope of injuring him without getting 
under way and becoming the assailant. From the mangled 
state of his rigging he could set no other sail than the flying 



108 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

jib ; this he caused to be hoisted, cut his cable, and ran down 
on both ships, with an intention of laying the Phcebe on board. 
For a short time he was enabled to close with the enemy, 
and the firing- on both sides was tremendous. The decks of 
the Essex were strewed with dead, and her cockpit filled with 
wounded ; she had been several times on fire, and was in fact 
a perfect wreck ; still a feeble hope sprung up that she might 
be saved, in consequence of the Cherub being compelled to 
hale off by her crippled state ; she did not return to close 
action action again, but kept up a distant firing with her long- 
guns. The disabled state of the Essex, however, did not per- 
mit her to take advantage of this circumstance ; for want of 
sail she was unable to keep at close quarters with the Phcebe, 
who, edging off, chose the distance which best suited her long 
guns, and kept up a tremendous fire, which made dreadful 
havoc among our crew. Many of the guns of the Essex were 
rendered useless, and many had their whole crews destroyed ; 
they were manned from those that were disabled, and one 
gun in particular was three times manned ; fifteen men were 
slain at it in the course of the action, though the captain of it 
escaped with only a slight wound. Captain Porter now gave 
up all hope of closing with the enemy, but finding the wind 
favorable, determined to run his ship on shore, land the crew, 
and destroy her. He had approached within musket-shot of 
the shore, and had every prospect of succeeding, when in an 
instant the wind shifted from the land, and drove her down 
upon the Phoebe, exposing her again to a dreadful raking fire. 
The ship was now totally unmanageable ; yet as her head was 
toward the enemy, and he to leeward, Captain Porter again 
perceived a faint hope of boarding. At this moment Lieuten- 
ant Downes of the Essex, Jr., came on board to receive orders, 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 109 

expecting that Captain Porter would soon be a prisoner. His 
services could be of no avail in the deplorable state of the 
Essex, and finding, from the enemy's putting his helm up, that 
the last attempt at boarding would not succeed, Captain Porter 
directed him, after he had been ten minutes on board, to return 
to his own ship, to be prepared for defending and destroying 
her in case of attack. He took with him several of the wounded, 
leaving three of his boat's crew on board to make room for 
them. The Cherub kept up a hot fire on him during his re- 
turn. The slaughter on board of the Essex now became hor- 
rible ; the enemy continued to rake her, while she was unable 
to bring a gun to bear in return. Still her commander, with 
an obstinacy that bordered on desperation, persisted in the un- 
equal and almost hopeless conflict. Every expedient that a 
fertile and inventive mind could suggest was resorted to, in 
the forlorn hope that they might yet be enabled by some lucky 
chance to escape from the grasp of the foe. A hawser was 
bent to the sheet anchor, and the anchor cut from the bows, 
to bring the ship's head round. This succeeded ; the broad- 
side of the Essex was again brought to bear ; and as the enemy 
was much crippled and unable to hold his own, Captain Porter 
thought she might drift out of gunshot before she discovered 
that he had anchored. The hawser, however, unfortunately 
parted, and with it failed the last lingering hope of the Essex. 
The ship had taken fire several times during the action, but 
at this moment her situation was awful. She was on fire both 
forward and aft ; the flames were bursting up each hatchway ; 
a large quantity of powder below exploded, and word was 
given that the fire was near the magazine. Thus surrounded 
by horrors, without any chance of saving the ship, Captain 
Porter turned his attention to rescuing as many of his brave 

5* 



110 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTKK. 

companions as possible. Finding his distance from the shore 
did not exceed three quarters of a mile, he hoped many would 
be able to save themselves should the ship blow up. His boats 
had been cut to pieces by the enemies' shot, but he advised 
such as could swim to jump overboard and make for shore. 
Some reached it, some were taken by the enemy, and some 
perished in the attempt; but most of this loyal and gallant 
crew preferred sharing the fate of their ship and their com- 
mander. 

Those who remained on board now endeavored to extin- 
guish the flames, and having succeeded, went again to the 
guns and kept up a firing for a few minutes ; but the crew had 
by this time become so weakened that all further resistance 
was in vain. Captain Porter summoned a consultation of the 
officers of divisions, but was surprised to find only Acting Lieu- 
tenant Stephen Decatur M'Knight remaining ; of the others 
some had been killed, others knocked overboard, and others 
carried below disabled by severe wounds. The accounts from 
every part of the ship were deplorable in the extreme ; rep- 
resenting her in the most shattered and crippled condition, in 
imminent danger of sinking, and so crowded with the wounded 
that even the berth-deck could contain no more, and many were 
killed while under the surgeon's hands. In the mean while 
the enemy, in consequence of the smoothness of the water and 
his secure distance, was enabled to keep up a deliberate and 
constant fire, aiming with coolness and certainty as if firing at 
a target, and hitting the hull at every shot. At length, utterly 
despairing of saving the ship, Captain Porter was compelled, 
at 20 minutes past 6 p. m. to give the painful order to strike 
the colors. It is probable the enemy did not perceive that the 
ship had surrendered, for he continued firing; several men 



CAPTAIN DAVID POHTKR. Ill 

were killed and wounded in different parts of the ship, and 
Captain Porter, thinking he intended to show no quarter, was 
about to rehoist his flag and to fight until he sunk, when the 
enemy desisted his attack ten minutes after the surrender. 

The foregoing account of this battle is taken almost verbatim 
from the letter of Captain Porter to the Secretary of the Navy. 
Making every allowance for its being a partial statement, this 
must certainly have been one of the most sanguinary and ob- 
stinately contested actions on naval record. The loss of the 
Essex is a sufficient testimony of the desperate bravery with 
which she was defended. Out of 255 men which comprised 
her crew, fifty-eight were killed ; thirty-nine wounded severely ; 
twenty-seven slightly, and thirty-one missing, — making in all 
154. She was completely cut to pieces, and so covered with 
the dead and dying, with mangled limbs, with brains and blood, 
and all the ghastly images of pain and death, that the officer 
who came on board to take possession of her, though accus- 
tomed to scenes of slaughter, was struck with sickening horror, 
and fainted at the shocking spectacle. 

Thousands of the inhabitants of Valparaiso were spectators 
of the battle, covering the neighboring heights; for it was 
fought so near the shore that some of the shot even struck 
among the citizens, who, in the eagerness of their curiosity, 
had ventured down upon the beach. Touched by the forlorn 
situation of the Essex, and filled with admiration at the un- 
flagging spirit and persevering bravery of her commander 
and crew, a generous anxiety ran throughout the multitude for 
their fate ; bursts of delight arose when, by any- vicissitude of 
battle, or prompt expedient, a chance seemed to turn up in 
their favor ; and the eager spectators were seen to wring their 
hands, and utter groans of sympathy, when the transient hope 



112 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

was defeated, and the gallant little frigate once more became 
an unresisting object of deliberate slaughter. 

It is needless to mention particularly the many instances of 
individual valor and magnanimity among both the officers and 
common sailors of the Essex; their general conduct bears 
ample testimony to their heroism ; and it will hereafter be a 
sufficient distinction for any man to prove that he was present 
in that battle. Every action that we have fought at sea has 
gone to destroy some envious shade which the enemy has 
attempted to cast on our rising reputation. After the affair 
of the Argus and the Pelican, it was asserted that our sailors 
were brave only while successful and unhurt, but that the sight 
of slaughter rilled them with dismay. In this battle it has 
been proved that they are capable of the highest exercise of 
courage, — that of standing unmoved among incessant carnage, 
without being able to return a shot, and destitute of a hope of 
ultimate success. 

Though, from the distance and positions which the enemy 
chose, this battle was chiefly fought on our part by six 12- 
pounders only, yet great damage was done to the assailing 
ships. Their masts and yards were badly crippled, their hulls 
much cut up ; the Phcebe, especially, received eighteen 12-pound 
shot below her water-line, some three feet under water. Their 
loss in killed and wounded was not ascertained, but must have 
been severe ; the first lieutenant of the Phcebe was killed, and 
Captain Tucker, of the Cherub, was severely wounded. It 
was with some difficulty that the Phcebe and the Essex could be 
kept afloat until they anchored the next morning in the port 
of Valparaiso. 

Much indignation has been expressed against Commodore 
Hillyar for his violation of the laws of nations, and of his private 



CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 113 

agreement with Captain Porter, by attacking him in the 
neutral waters of Valparaiso. Waiving all discussion of these 
points, it may barely be observed, that his cautious attack with 
a vastly superior force, on a crippled ship, which, relying on 
his forbearance, had placed herself in a most defenceless 
situation, and which for six weeks previous had offered him 
fair fight, on advantageous terms, though it may reflect great 
credit on his prudence, yet certainly furnishes no triumph to a 
brave and generous mind. Aware, however, of that delicacy 
which ought to be observed towards the character even of an 
enemy, it is not the intention of the writer to assail that of 
Commodore Hillyar. Indeed, his conduct after the battle en- 
titles him to high encomium ; he showed the greatest humanity 
to the wounded, and, as Captain Porter acknowledges, en- 
dea¥ored as much as lay in his power to alleviate the distresses 
of war by the most generous and delicate deportment towards 
both the officers and crew, commanding that the property of 
every person should be respected. Captain Porter and his 
crew were paroled, and permitted to return to the United 
States in the Essex, Jr., her armament being previously 
taken out. On arriving off the port of New York, they were 
overhauled by the Saturn razee, the authority of Commodore 
Hillyar to grant a passport was questioned, and the Essex, 
Jr. detained. Captain Porter then told the boarding of- 
ficer that he gave up his parole, and considered himself a 
prisoner of war, and as such should use all means of escape. 
In consequence of this threat the Essex, Jr. was ordered to re- 
main all night under the lee of the Saturn, but the next 
morning Captain Porter put off in his boat, though thirty 
miles from shore ; and, notwithstanding he was pursued by 
tfie Saturn, effected his escape and landed safely on Long 



114 CAPTAIN DAVID PORTER. 

Island. His reception in the United States has been such as 
his great services and distinguished valor deserved. The 
various interesting and romantic rumors that had reached this 
country concerning him, during his cruise in the Pacific, had 
excited the curiosity of the public to see this modern Sinbad ; 
on arriving in New York his carriage was surrounded by the 
populace, who took out the horses, and dragged him, with 
shouts and acclamations, to his lodgings. 

The length to which this article has already been extended, 
notwithstanding the brevity with which many interesting cir- 
cumstances have been treated, forbids any further remarks 
on the character and services of Captain Porter. They are 
sufficiently illustrated in the foregoing summary of his eventful 
life, and particularly in the history of his last cruise, which 
was conducted with wonderful enterprise, fertility of expedient, 
consummate seamanship, and daring courage. In his single 
ship he has inflicted more injury on the commerce of the 
enemy than all the rest of the navy put together ; not merely 
by actual devastation, but by the general insecurity and com- 
plete interruption which he occasioned to an extensive and 
invaluable branch of British trade. His last action, also, 
though it terminated in the loss of his frigate, can scarcely be 
considered as unfortunate, inasmuch as it has given a brilliancy 
to his own reputation, and wreathed fresh honors around the 
name of the American sailor. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

It has long been deplored by authors as a lamentable truth, 
that they seldom receive impartial justice from the world 
while living. The grave seems to be the ordeal to which their 
names must be subjected, and from whence, if worthy of im- 
mortality, they rise with pure and imperishable lustre. Here 
many, who have flourished in unmerited popularity, descend 
into oblivion ; and it may literally be said, that " they rest from 
their labors, and their works do follow them." Here likewise 
many an ill-starred author, after struggling with penury and 
neglect, and starving through a world which he has enriched 
by his talents, sinks to rest, and becomes a theme of universal 
admiration and regret. The sneers of the cynical, the de 
tractions of the envious, the scoffings of the ignorant, are 
silenced at the hallowed precincts of the tomb ; and the worl 
awakens to a sense of his value, when he is removed beyond 
its patronage forever. Monuments are erected to his memory, 
books are written in his praise, and thousands will devour withy 
avidity the biography of a man, whose life was passed un- 
heeded before their eyes. He is like some canonized saint, at 
whose shrine treasures are lavished, and clouds of incense 
offered up, though, while living, the slow hand of charity 
withheld the pittance that would have soothed his miseries. 

But this tardiness in awarding merit its due, this preference 
continually shown to departed, over living authors, of perhaps 



116 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

superior excellence, may be attributed to a more charitable 
source than that of envy or ill-nature. The latter are con- 
tinually before our eyes, exposed to the full glare of scruti- 
nizing familiarity. We behold them subject to the same foibles 
and frailties with ourselves, and, from the constitutional del- 
icacy of their minds, and their irritable sensibilities, prone to 
more than ordinary caprices. The former, on the contrary, 
are seen only through the magic medium of their works. We 
form our opinion of the whole flow of their minds, and the 
tenor of their dispositions, from the writings they have left 
behind. We witness nothing of the mental exhaustion and 
langour which followed these gushes of genius. We behold 
the stream only in the fulness of its current, and conclude that 
it has always been equally profound in its depth, pure in its 
wave, and majestic in its career. 

With respect to the living writers of Europe, however, we 
may be said, on this side of the Atlantic, to be placed in some 
degree in the situation of posterity. The vast ocean that rolls 
between us, like a space of time, removes us beyond the 
sphere of personal favor, personal prejudice, or personal 
familiarity. A European work, therefore, appears before us 
depending simply on its intrinsic merits. We have no private 
friendship, nor party purpose to serve, by magnifying the 
author's merits ; and, in sober sadness, the humble state of our 
\J national literature places us far below any feeling of national 
rivalship. 

But, while our local situation thus enables us to exercise the 
enviable impartiality of posterity, it is evident we must share 
likewise in one of its disadvantages. We are in as complete 
ignorance respecting the biography of most living authors of 
celebrity, as though they had existed ages before our time ; 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. It 7 

and, indeed, are better informed concerning the character and 
lives of the authors who have long since passed away, than of 
those who are actually adding to the stores of European liter- 
ature. A proof of this assertion will be furnished in the 
following sketch, which, unsatisfactory as it is, contains all the 
information we can collect concerning a British poet of rare 
and exquisite endowments. 

Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, on the 27th of w 
of September, 1777. He is the youngest son of Mr. Alex- 
ander Campbell, late merchant of Glasgow ; a gentleman of 
the most unblemished integrity and amiable manners, who 
united the scholar and the man of business, and, amidst the 
corroding cares and sordid habits of trade, cherished a liberal 
and enthusiastic love of literature. He died at a very ad- 
vanced age, in the spring of 1801, and the event is mentioned 
in the " Edinburgh Magazine," with high encomiums on his 
moral and religious character. 

It may not be uninteresting to the American reader to know 
that Mr. Campbell, the poet, has very near connections in this 
country; and, indeed, to this circumstance may be in some 
measure attributed the liberal sentiments he has frequently ex 
pressed concerning America. His father resided, for many 
years of his youth, at Falmouth, in Virginia, but returned to 
Europe about fifty years since. His uncle, who had ac- 
companied his father, settled permanently in Virginia, where 
his family has uniformly maintained a highly respectable 
character. One of his sons was District Attorney under the 
administration of Washington, and died in 1795. He was a 
man of uncommon talents, and particularly distinguished for 
his eloquence. Robert Campbell also, a brother of the poet, 



118 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

settled in Virginia, where he married a daughter of the cel- 
ebrated Patrick Henry. He died about the year 1808. 

The genius of Mr. Campbell showed itself almost in his 
infancy. At the age of seven he possessed a vivacity of im- 
agination, and a vigor of mind, surprising in such early youth. 
A strong inclination for poetry was already discernible in him ; 
and, indeed, it was not more than two years after this that we 
are told " he began to try his wings." These bright dawhings 
of intellect, united to uncommon personal beauty, a winning 
gentleness and modesty of manners, and a generous sensibility 
of heart, made him an object of universal favor and admira- 
tion. 

There is scarcely any obstacle more fatal to the full develop- 
'ment and useful application of talent than an early display of 
genius. The extravagant caresses lavished upon it by the 
light and injudicious, are too apt to beget a self-confidence in 
the possessor, and render him impatient of the painful dis- 
cipline of study; without which genius, at best, is irregular, 
ungovernable, and ofttimes splendidly erroneous. 

Perhaps there is no country in the world where this error is 
less frequent than in Scotland. The Scotch are a philosoph- 
ical, close-thinking people. Wary and distrustful of external 
appearances and first impressions, stern examiners into the 
utility of things, and cautious in dealing out the dole of ap- 
plause, their admiration follows tardily in the rear of their 
judgment, and even when they admire, they do it with peculiar 
rigidity of muscle. This spirit of rigorous rationality is pecu- 
liarly evident in the management of youthful genius ; which, 
instead of meeting with enervating indulgence, is treated with 
a Spartan severity of education, tasked to the utmost extent of 
its powers, and made to undergo a long and laborious probation, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 119 

before it is permitted to emerge into notoriety. The con 
sequence is, an uncommon degree of skill and vigor in their 
writers. They are rendered diligent by constant habits of 
study, powerful by science, graceful by the elegant accomplish- 
ments of the scholar, and prompt and adroit in the management 
of their talents, by the frequent contests and exercises of the 
schools. 

From the foregoing observations may be gathered the kind 
of system adopted with respect to young Campbell. His early 
display of genius, instead of making him the transient wonder 
of the drawing-room, and the enfant gate of the tea-table, 
consigned him to the rigid discipline of the academy. At the 
age of seven he commenced the study of the Latin language 
under the care of the Rev. David Alison, a teacher of distin- 
guished reputation in Scotland. At twelve he entered the 
University of Glasgow, and in the following year gained a 
bursary on Bishop Leighton's foundation, for a translation of 
one of the comedies of Aristophanes, which he executed in 
verse. This triumph was the more honorable, from being 
gained, after a hard contest, over a rival candidate of nearly 
twice his age, who was considered one of the best scholars in 
the University. His second prize exercise was the translation 
of a tragedy of iEschylus, likewise in verse, which he gained 
without opposition, as none of the students would enter the 
lists with him. He continued seven years in the University, 
during which time his talents and application were testified by 
yearly academical prizes. He was particularly successful in his 
translations from the Greek, in which language he took great 
delight ; and on receiving his last prize for one of these per- 
formances, the. Greek professor publicly pronounced it the best 
that had ever been produced in the University. 



120 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Moral philosophy was likewise a favorite study with Mr. 
Campbell ; and, indeed, he applied himself to gain an intimate 
acquaintance with the whole circle of sciences. But though, 
in the prosecution of his studies, he attended the academical 
courses both of law and physic, it was merely as objects of 
curiosity, and branches of general knowledge, for he never de- 
voted himself to any particular study with a view to pre- 
pare himself for a profession. On the contrary, his literary 
passion was already so strong, that he could never, for a mo- 
ment, endure the idea of confining himself to the dull round of 
business, or engaging in the absorbing pursuits of common life. 

In this he was most probably confirmed by the indulgence of 
a fond father, whose ardent love of literature made him regard 
the promising talents of his son with pride and sanguine an- 
ticipation. At one time, it is true, a part of his family 
expressed a wish that he should be fitted for the Church, but 
this was completely overruled by the rest, and he was left, with- 
out further opposition, to the impulse of his own genius and. 
the seductions of the Muse. 

After leaving the University he passed some time among the 
mountains of Argyleshire, at the seat of Colonel Napier, a 
descendant of Napier Baron Merchiston, the celebrated in- 
ventor of logarithms. It is probable that from this gentleman 
he first imbibed his taste and knowledge of the military art, 
traces of which are to be seen throughout his poems. From 
Argyleshire he went to Edinburgh, where the reputation he 
had acquired at the University gained him a favorable recep- 
tion into the distinguished circle of science and literature for 
which that city is renowned. Among others he was particularly 
honored by the notice of Professors Stewart and Playfair. 
Nothing could be more advantageous for a youthful poet, than 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 121 

to commence his career under such auspices. To the ex- 
pansion of mind and elevation of thought produced by the 
society of such celebrated men, may we ascribe, in a great 
measure, the philosophic spirit and moral sublimity displayed 
in his first production, the " Pleasures of Hope," which was 
written during his residence at Edinburgh. He was not more 
than twenty when he wrote this justly celebrated poem, and it 
was published in the following year. 

The popularity of this work at once introduced the author 
to the notice and patronage of the first people of Great Britain. 
At first, indeed, it promised but little pecuniary advantage, as 
he unfortunately disposed of the copyright for an inconsider- 
able sum. This, however, was in some measure remedied by 
the liberality of his publisher, who, finding that his book ran 
through two editions in the course of a few months, permitted 
him to publish a splendid edition for himself, by which means 
he was enabled, in some measure, to participate in the golden 
harvest of his labors. 

About this time the passion for German literature raged in 
all its violence in Great Britain, and the universal enthusiasm 
with which it was admired, awakened, in the inquiring mind of 
our author, a desire of studying it at the fountain-head. This, 
added to his curiosity to visit foreign parts, induced him to 
embark for Germany in the year 1800. He had originally 
fixed upon the college of Jena for his first place of residence, 
but on arriving at Hamburg he found, by the public prints, 
that a victory had been gained by the French near Ulm, and 
that Munich and the heart of Bavaria were the theatre of an 
interesting war. " One moment's sensation," he observes, in a 
letter to a relation in this country, " the single hope of seeing 
human nature exhibited in its most dreadful attitude, over- 



ts 



122 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

turned my past decisions. I got down to the seat of war some 
weeks before the summer armistice of 1800, and indulged in 
what you will call the criminal curiosity of witnessing blood 
and desolation. Never shall time efface from my memory the 
recollection of that hour of astonishment and suspended 
breath, when I stood with the good monks of St. Jacob, to 
overlook a charge of Klenaw's cavalry upon the French under 
Grennier, encamped below us. We saw the fire given and 
returned, and heard distinctly the sound of the French pas de 
charge collecting the lines to attack in close column. After 
three hours' awaiting the issue of a severe action, a park of 
artillery was opened just beneath the walls of the monastery, 
and several wagoners, that were stationed to convey the 
wounded in spring-wagons, were killed in our sight." This 
awful spectacle he has described with all the poet's fire, in his 
" Battle of Hohenlinden " ; a poem which perhaps contains 
^l more grandeur and martial sublimity than is to be found any- 
where else, in the same compass of English poetry. 

Mr. Campbell afterwards proceeded to Ratisbon, where he 
was at the time it was taken possession of by the French, and 
expected, as an Englishman, to be made prisoner ; but he 
observes, " Moreau's army was under such excellent discipline, 
and the behavior both of officers and men so civil, that I soon 
mixed among them without hesitation, and formed many agree- 
able acquaintances at the messes of their brigade stationed in 
town, to which their chef de brigade often invited me. This 
worthy man, Colonel Le Fort, whose kindness I shall ever re- 
member with gratitude, gave me a protection to pass through 
the whole army of Moreau." 

After this he visited different parts of Germany, in the 
course of which he paid one of the casual taxes on travelling ; 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 123 

being plundered among the Tyrolese Mountains, by a Croat, of 
his clothes, his books, and thirty ducats in gold. About mid- 
winter he returned to Hamburg, where he remained four 
months, in the expectation of accompanying a young gentle- 
man of Edinburgh in a tour to Constantinople. His unceasing 
thirst for knowledge, and his habits of industrious application, 
prevented these months from passing heavily or unprofitably, 
His time was chiefly employed in reading German, and making 
himself acquainted with the principles of Kant's philosophy ; 
from which, however, he seems soon to have turned with dis- 
taste, to the richer and more interesting field of German 
belles-lettres. 

While in Germany an edition of his " Pleasures of Hope " 
was proposed for publication in Vienna, but was forbidden by 
the court, in consequence of those passages which relate to 
Kosciusko, and the partition of Poland. Being disappointed 
in his projected visit to Constantinople, he returned to England 
in 1801, after nearly a year's absence, which had been passed 
much to his satisfaction and improvement, and had stored his 
mind with grand and awful images. "I remember," says he, 
" how little I valued the art of painting before I got into the 
heart of such impressive scenes ; but in Germany I would 
have given anything to have possessed an art capable of con- 
veying ideas inaccessible to speech and writing. Some par- 
ticular scenes were, indeed, rather overcharged with that 
degree of the terrific which oversteps the sublime, and I own 
my flesh yet creeps at the recollection of spring-wagons and 
hospitals ; but the sight of Ingolstadt in ruins, or Hohenlinden 
covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spectacles 
never to forgotten." 

On returning to England he visited London, for the first 



124 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

time, where, though unprovided with a single letter of introduc- 
tion, the celebrity of his writings procured him the immediate 
notice and attentions of the best society. His recent visit to 
the Continent, however, had increased rather than gratified 
his desire to travel. He now contemplated another tour, for 
the purpose of improving himself in the knowledge of foreign 
languages and foreign manners, in the course of which he in- 
tended to visit Italy and pass some time at Rome. From this 
plan he was diverted, most probably, by an attachment he 
I / formed to a Miss Sinclair, a distant relation, whom he married 
in 1803. This change in his situation naturally put an end to 
all his wandering propensities, and he removed to Sydenham, 
in Kent, near London, where he has ever since resided, de- 
voting himself to literature, and the calm pleasures of do- 
mestic life. 

He has been enabled to indulge his love of study and re- 
tirement more comfortably by the bounty of his sovereign, who 
some few years since presented him with an annuity of 2001. 
This distinguished mark of royal favor, so gratifying to the 
pride of the poet, and the loyal affections of the subject, was 
wholly spontaneous and unconditional. It was neither granted 
to the importunities of friends at court, nor given as a douceur 
to secure the services of the author's pen, but merely as a 
testimony of royal approbation of his popular poem, the 
" Pleasures of Hope." Mr. Campbell, both before and since, 
has uniformly been independent in his opinions and writings. 
Though withdrawn from the busy world in his retirement 
at Sydenham, yet the genius of Mr. Campbell, like a true 
brilliant, occasionally flashed upon the public eye. in a number 
of exquisite little poems, which appeared in the periodical 
works of the day. Many of these he has never thought propei 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 125 

to rescue from their perishable repositories. But of those 
which he has formally acknowledged and republished, " Ho- 
henlinden," " Lochiel," the " Mariners of England," and the 
" Battle of the Baltic," are sufficient oF themselves, were other 
evidence wanting, to establish his title to the sacred name of 
Poet. The two last-mentioned poems we consider as two of y. 
the noblest national songs we have ever seen. They contain 
sublime imagery and lofty sentiments, delivered with a " gal- 
lant swelling spirit," but totally free from that hyperbole and 
national rhodomontade which generally disgrace this species of 
poetry. In the beginning of 1809 he published his second vol- 
ume of poems, containing " Gertrude of Wyoming," and several 
smaller effusions ; since which time he has produced nothing 
of consequence, excepting the uncommonly spirited and affect- 
ing little tale of " O'Connor's Child, or Love Lies Bleeding." 

Of those private and characteristic anecdotes which display 
most strikingly the habits and peculiarities of a writer, we have 
scarcely any to furnish respecting Mr. Campbell. He is gen- 
erally represented to us as being extremely studious, but at the 
same time social in his disposition, gentle and endearing in his 
manners, and extremely prepossessing in his appearance and 
address. With a delicate and even nervous sensibility, and a 
degree of self-diffidence that at times is almost painful, he 
shrinks from the glare of notoriety which his own works have 
shed around him, and seems ever deprecating criticism, rather 
than enjoying praise. Though his society is courted by the 
most polished and enlightened, among whom he is calculated 
to shine, yet his chief delight is in domestic life, in the practice 
of those gentle virtues and bland affections which he has so 
touchingly and eloquently illustrated in various passages of his 
poems. 

6 



126 THOMAS CAMPBELL 

That Mr. Campbell has by any means attained to the summit 
of his fame, we cat-mot' suffer ourselves for a moment to be- 
lieve. We rather look upon the works he has already produced 
as specimens of pure and virgin gold from a mine whose treas- 
ures are yet to be explored. It is true, the very reputation 
Mr. Campbell has acquired, may operate as a disadvantage to 
his future efforts. Public expectation is a pitiless taskmaster, 
and exorbitant in its demands. He who has once awakened 
it, must go on in a progressive ratio, surpassing what he has 
hitherto done, or the public will be disappointed. Under such 
circumstances an author of common sensibility takes up his 
pen with fear and trembling. A consciousness that much 
is expected from him deprives him of that ease of mind and 
boldness of imagination, which are necessary to fine writing, 
and he too often fails from a too great anxiety to excel. He is 
like some youthful soldier, who, having distinguished himself 
by a gallant and brilliant achievement, is ever afterward fearful 
of entering on a new enterprise, lest he should tarnish the 
laurels he has won. 

We are satisfied that Mr. Campbell feels this very diffidence 
and solicitude from the uncommon pains he bestows upon his 
writings. These are scrupulously revised, modelled, and re- 
touched over and over, before they are suffered to go out of 
his hands, and even then, are slowly and reluctantly yielded up 
to the press. This elaborate care may, at times, be carried to 
an excess, so as to produce fastidiousness of style, and an air 
of too much art and labor. It occasionally imparts to the Muse 
the precise demeanor and studied attire of the prude, rather 
than the negligent and' bewitching graces of the woodland 
nymph. A too minute attention to finishing is likewise in- 
jurious to the force and sublimity of a poem. The vivid 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 127 

images which are struck off, at a single heat, in those glowing 
moments of inspiration, " when the soul is lifted to heaven," 
are too often softened down, and cautiously tamed, in the cold 
hour of correction. As an instance of the critical severity 
which Mr. Campbell exercises over his productions, we will 
mention a fact within our knowledge, concerning his " Battle 
of the Baltic." This ode, as published, consists of but five 
stanzas ; these were all that his scrupulous taste permitted him 
to cull out of a large number, which we have seen in manu- 
script. The rest, though full of poetic fire and imagery, were 
timidly consigned by him to oblivion. 

But though this scrupulous spirit of revision may chance to 
refine away some of the bold touches of his pencil, and to 
injure some of its negligent graces, it is not without its eminent 
advantages. While it tends to produce a terseness of language, 
and a remarkable delicacy and sweetness of versification, it 
enables him likewise to impart to his productions a vigorous 
consciseness of style, a graphical correctness of imagery, and 
a philosophical condensation of idea, rarely found in the pop- 
ular poets of the day. Facility of writing seems to be the 
bane of many modern poets ; who too generally indulge in a 
ready and abundant versification, which, like a flowering vine, 
overruns their subject, and expands through many a weedy 
page. In fact, most of them seem to have mistaken careless- 
ness for ease, and redundance for luxuriance ; they never take 
pains to condense and invigorate Hence we have those pro- 
fuse and loosely written poems, wherein the writers, either 
too feeble or too careless to seize at once upon their subject, 
prefer giving it a chase, and hunt it through a labyrinth of 
verses, until it is fairly run down and overpowered by a multi- 
tude of words. 



128 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Great, therefore, as are the intrinsic merits of Mr. Campbell, 
we are led to estimate them the more highly when we consider 
them as beaming forth, like the pure lights of heaven, among 
the meteor exhalations and false fires with which our literary 
atmosphere abounds. In an age when we are overwhelmed 
by an abundance of eccentric poetry, and when we are con- 
founded by a host of ingenious poets of vitiated tastes and 
frantic fancies, it is really cheering and consolatory to behold a 
writer of Mr. Campbell's genius, studiously attentive to please, 
according to the established laws of criticism, as all our good 
old 'orthodox writers have pleased before ; without setting up a 
standard, and endeavoring to establish a new sect, and incul- 
cate some new and lawless doctrine of his own. 

Before concluding this sketch, we cannot help pointing to 
one circumstance, which we confess has awakened a feeling of 
good will toward Mr. Campbell ; though in mentioning it we 
shall do little more, perhaps, than betray our own national 
egotism. He is, we believe, the only British poet of eminence 
that has laid the story of a considerable poem in the bosom of 
our country. We allude to his " Gertrude of Wyoming," 
which describes the pastoral simplicity and innocence, and the 
subsequent woes of one of our little patriarchal hamlets, dur- 
ing the troubles of our Revolution. 

We have so long been accustomed to experience little else 
than contumely, misrepresentation, and very witless ridicule, 
from the British press ; and we have had such repeated proofs of 
the extreme ignorance and absurd errors that prevail in Great 
Britain respecting our country and its inhabitants, that, we 
confess, we were both suprised and gratified to meet with a 
poet sufficiently unprejudiced to conceive an idea of moral 
excellence and natural beauty on this side of the Atlantic, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 129 

Indeed, even this simple show of liberality has drawn on the 
poet the censures of many narrow-minded writers, with whom 
liberality to this country is a crime. We are sorry to see such 
pitiful manifestations of hostility towards us. Indeed, we must 
say, that we consider the constant acrimony and traduction in- 
dulged in by the British press toward this country, to be as 
opposite to the interest, as it is derogatory to the candor and 
magnanimity of the nation. It is operating to widen the dif- 
ference between two nations, which, if left to the impulse of 
their own feelings, would naturally grow together, and among 
the sad changes of this disastrous world, be mutual supports 
and comforts to each other. 

Whatever may be the occasional collisions of etiquette and 
interest which will inevitably take place between two great 
commercial nations, whose property and people are spread far 
and wide on the face of the ocean ; whatever may be the 
clamorous expressions of hostility vented at such times by our 
unreflecting populace, or rather uttered in their name by a 
host of hireling scribblers, who pretend to speak the senti- 
ments of the people ; it is certain, that the well-educated 
and well-informed class of our citizens entertain a deep-rooted 
good will, and a rational esteem, for Great Britain. It is al- 
most impossible it should be otherwise. Independent of those 
hereditary affections, which spring up spontaneously for the 
nation from whence we have descended, the single circum- 
stance of imbibing our ideas from the same authors has a 
powerful effect in causing an attachment. 

The writers of Great Britain are the adopted citizens of our 
country, and, though they have no legislative voice, exercise an 
authority over our opinions and affections, cherished by long 
habit and matured by affection. In these works we have 



130 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

British valor, British magnanimity, British might, and British 
wisdom, continually before our eyes, portrayed in the most cap- 
tivating colors ; and are thus brought up in constant contem- 
plation of all that is amiable and illustrious in the British 
character. To these works, likewise, we resort, in every vary- 
ing mood of mind, or vicissitude of fortune. They are our 
delight in the hour of relaxation ; the solemn monitors and in- 
structors of our closet ; our comforters in the gloomy seclusions 
of life-loathing despondency. In the season of early life, in 
the strength of manhood, and still in the weakness and apathy 
of age, it is to them we are indebted for our hours of refined 
and unalloyed enjoyment. When we turn our eyes to Eng- 
land, therefore, from whence this bounteous tide of literature 
pours in upon us, it is with such feelings as the Egyptian ex- 
periences, when he looks toward the sacred source of that 
stream, which, rising in a far distant country, flows down upon 
his own barren soil, diffusing riches, beauty, and fertility.* 

Surely it cannot be the interest of Great Britain to trifle 
with such feelings. Surely the good will, thus cherished among 
the best hearts of a country, rapidly increasing in power and 
importance, is of too much consequence to be scornfully neg- 

* Since this biographical notice was first published, the political relations be- 
tween the two countries have been changed by a war with Great Britain. The 
above observations, therefore, may not be palatable to those who are eager for 
the hostility of the pen as well as the sword. The author, indeed, was for some 
time in doubt whether to expunge them, as he could not prevail on himself to 
accommodate them to the embittered temper of the times. He determined, 
however, to let them remain. However the feelings he has expressed may be 
outraged or prostrated by the violence of warfare, they never can be totally 
eradicated. Besides, it should be the exalted ministry of literature to keep to- 
gether the family of human nature; to calm with her " soul subduing voice " 
the furious passions of warfare, and thus to bind up those ligaments which the 
sword would cleave asunder. The author may be remiss in the active exercise 
of this duty, but he will never have to reproach himself, that he has attempted 
io poison, with political virulence, the pure fountains of elegant literature. 



THOMA.S CAMPBELL. 131 

lected or surlily dashed away. It most certainly, therefore, 
would be both politic and honorable, for those enlightened 
British writers, who sway the sceptre of criticism, to expose 
these constant misrepresentations, and discountenance these 
galling and unworthy insults of the pen, whose effect is to 
mislead and to irritate, without serving one valuable purpose. 
They engender gross prejudices in Great Britain, inimical to 
a proper national understanding, while with us they wither all 
those feelings of kindness and consanguinity, that were shooting 
forth, like so many tendrils, to attach to us our parent country, 

While, therefore, we regard the poem of Mr. Campbell with 
complacency, as evincing an opposite spirit to this, of which 
we have just complained, there are other reasons, likewise, 
which interest us in its favor. Among the lesser evils, incident 
to the infant state of our country, we have to lament its almost 
total deficiency in those local associations produced by history 
and moral fiction. These may appear trivial to the common 
mass of readers ; but the mind of taste and sensibility will at 
once acknowledge them as constituting a great source of na- 
tional pride and love of country. There is an inexpressible 
charm imparted to every place that has been celebrated by the 
historian, or immortalized by the poet ; a charm that dignifies 
it in the eyes of the stranger, and endears it to the ' heart of 
the native. Of this romantic attraction we are almost entirely 
destitute. While every insignificant hill and turbid stream in 
classic Europe has been hallowed by the visitations of the 
Muse, and contemplated with fond enthusiasm, our lofty 
mountains and stupendous cataracts awaken no poetical asso- 
ciations, and our majestic rivers roll their waters unheeded, 
because unsung. 

Thus circumstanced, the sweet strains of Mr. Campbell's 



132 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Muse break upon us as gladly as would the pastoral pipe of 
the shepherd, amid the savage solitude of one of our trackless 
wildernesses. We are delighted to witness the air of captivat- 
ing romance and rural beautv our native fields and wild woods 
can assume under the plastic pencil of a master; and while 
wandering with the poet among the shady groves of Wyoming, 
or along the banks of the Susquehanna, almost fancy ourselves 
transported to the side of some classic stream, in the " hollow 
breast of Appenine." This may assist to convince many, who 
were before slow to believe, that our own country is capable 
of inspiring the highest poetic feelings, and furnishing abun- 
dance of poetic imagery, though destitute of the hackneyed 
materials of poetry ; though its groves are not vocal with the 
song of the nightingale ; though no Naiads have ever sported 
in its streams, nor Satyrs and Dryads gamboled among its 
forests. Wherever Nature — sweet Nature — displays herself 
in simple beauty or wild magnificence, and wherever the 
human mind appears in new and striking situations, neither the 
poet nor the philosopher can ever want subjects worthy of 
his genius. 

Having made such particular mention of " Gertrude of Wyom- 
ing," we will barely add one or two circumstances connected 
with it, strongly illustrative of the character of the literary 
author. The story of the poem, though extremely simple, is 
not sufficiently developed; some of the facts, particularly in 
the first part, are rapidly passed over, and left rather obscure ; 
from which many have inconsiderately pronounced the whole 
a hasty sketch, without perceiving the elaborate delicacy with 
which the parts are finished. This defect is to be attributed 
entirely to the self-diffidence of Mr. Campbell. It is his mis- 
fortune that he is too distrustful of himself, and too ready to 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 133 

listen to the opinions of inferior minds, rather than boldly to 
follow the dictates of his own pure taste and the impulses of 
his exalted imagination, which, if left to themselves, would 
never falter or go wrong. Thus we are told, that when his 
" Gertrude " first came from under his pen, it was full and 
complete ; but in an evil hour he read it to some of his critical 
friends. Every one knows that when a man's critical judgment 
is consulted, he feels himself in credit bound to find fault. 
Various parts of the poem were of course objected to, and 
various alterations recommended. 

With a fatal diffidence, which, while we admire we cannot 
but lament, Mr. Campbell struck out those parts entirely, and 
obliterated, in a moment, the fruit of hours of inspiration and 
days of labor. But when he attempted to bind together and 
new-model the elegant but mangled limbs of this virgin poem, 
his shy imagination revolted from the task. The glow of feel- 
ing was chilled, the creative powers of invention were ex- 
hausted ; the parts, therefore, were slightly and imperfectly 
thrown together, with a spiritless pen, and hence arose that 
apparent want of development which occurs in some parts of 
the story. 

Indeed, we do not think the unobtrusive, and, if we may 
be allowed the word, occult merits of this poem are calculated 
to strike popular attention, during the present passion for dash- 
ing verse and extravagant incident. Jt is mortifying to an 
author to observe, that those accomplishments which it has cost 
him the greatest pains to acquire, and which he regards with a 
proud eye, as the exquisite proofs of his skill, are totally lost 
upon the generality of readers ; who are commonly captivated 
by those glaring qualities to which he attaches but little value. 

Most people are judges of exhibitions of force and activity of 

6* 



134 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

body, but it requires a certain refinement of taste and a prac- 
tised eye, to estimate that gracefulness which is the achievement 
of labor and consummation of art. So, in writing, whatever 
is bold, glowing, and garish, strikes the attention of the most 
careless, and is generally felt and acknowledged ; but compar- 
atively few can appreciate that modest delineation of Nature, 
that tenderness of sentiment, propriety of language, and 
gracefulness of composition, that bespeak the polished and ac- 
complished writer. Such, however, as possess this delicacy of 
taste and feeling, will often return to dwell, with cherishing 
fondness, on the " Gertrude " of Mr. Campbell. Like all his 
other writings, it presents virtue in its most touching and cap- 
tivating forms ; whether gently exercised in the " bosom scenes 
of life," or sublimely exerted in its extraordinary and turbulent 
situations. No writer can surpass Mr. Campbell in the vestal 
purity and amiable morality of his Muse. While he possesses 
the power of firing the imagination, and filling it with sublime 
and awful images, he excels also in those eloquent appeals to 
the feelings, and those elevated flights of thought, by which, 
while the fancy is exalted, the heart is made better. 

It is now some time since he has produced any poem. Of 
late he has been employed in preparing a work for the press, 
containing critical and biographical notices of British poets 
from the reign of Edward III. to the present time. However 
much we may be gratified by such a work, from so competent 
a judge, still we cannot but regret that he should stoop from 
the brilliant track of poetic invention, in which he is so well cal- 
culated to soar, and descend into the lower regions of literature 
to mingle with droning critics and mousing commentators. 
His task should be to produce poetry, not to criticize it ; for, 
in our minds, he does more for his own fame, and for the in- 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 135 

terests of literature, who furnishes one fine verse, than he who 
points out a thousand beauties, or detects a thousand faults. 

We hope, therefore, soon to behold Mr. Campbell emerging 
from those dusty labors, and breaking forth in the full lustre of 
original genius. He owes it to his own reputation ; he owes it 
to his own talents ; he owes it to the literature of his country. 
Poetry has generally flowed in an abundant stream in Great 
Britain ; but it is too apt to stray among the rocks and weeds, 
to expand into brawling shallows, or waste itself in turbid and 
ungovernable torrents. We have, however, marked a narrow, 
but pure and steady channel, continuing down from the earliest 
ages, through a line of real poets, who seem to have been sent 
from heaven to keep the vagrant stream from running at utter 
waste and random. Of this chosen number we consider Mr. 
Campbell ; and we are happy at having this opportunity of 
rendering our feeble tribute of applause to a writer whom we 
consider an ornament to the age, an honor to his country, and 
one whom his country " should delight to honor." 

Thomas Campbell died_June 15, 1844. Soon after the pub- \f" 
lication of the foregoing Memoir Mr. Irving went to Europe 
and became personally acquainted with him. When Messrs. 
Harper & Brothers were about reprinting in this country the 
biography of the poet by Dr. Beattie, they submitted the Lon- 
don proof-sheets to his inspection, with a suggestion that a 
letter from him would be a very acceptable introduction of the 
work to the American people. He sent them the following 
reply, which seems properly to link itself with the foregoing 
sketch : — 

Messrs. Harper & Brothers : 

Gentlemen, — I feel much obliged to you for the perusal 



136 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

you have afforded me of the biography of Campbell, but fear 
I have nothing of importance to add to the copious details 
which it furnishes. My acquaintance with Campbell com- 
menced in, I think, 1810, through his brother Archibald, a 
most amiable, modest, and intelligent man, but more of a 
mathematician than a poet. He resided at that time in New 
York, and had received from his brother a manuscript copy 
of " O'Connor's Child ; or, the Flower of Love Lies Bleeding," 
for which he was desirous of finding a purchaser among the 
American publishers. I negotiated the matter for him with 
a publishing house in Philadelphia, which offered a certain 
sum for the poem, provided I w r ould write a biographical 
sketch of the author to be prefixed to a volume containing all 
his poetical works. To secure a good price for the poet, I 
wrote the sketch, being furnished with facts by his brother; 
it was done, however, in great haste, when I was "not in the 
vein," and, of course, w r as very slight and imperfect. It served, 
however, to put me at once on a friendly footing with Camp- 
bell, so that, when I met him for the first time a few years 
subsequently in England, he received me as an old friend. 
He was living at that time in his rural retreat at Sydenham. 
His modest mansion was fitted up in a simple style, but with 
a tact and taste characteristic of the occupants. 

Campbell's appearance was more in unison wdth his writings 
than is generally the case with authors. He was about thirty- 
seven years of age ; of the middle size, lightly and genteelly 
made ; evidently of a delicate, sensitive organization, with a 
fine intellectual countenance and a beaming poetic eye. 

He had now been about twelve years married. Mrs. Camp- 
bell still retained much of that personal beauty for which he 
praises her in his letters written in the early days of matri- 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. « 137 

mony ; and her mental qualities seemed equally to justify his 
eulogies, — a rare circumstance, as none are more prone to 
dupe themselves in affairs of the heart than men of lively im- 
aginations. She was, in fact, a more suitable wife for a poet 
than poet's wives are apt to be ; and for once a son of song 
had married a reality and not a poetical fiction. 

I had considered the early productions of Campbell as brill- 
iant indications of a genius yet to be developed, and trusted 
that, during the long interval which had elapsed, he had been 
preparing something to fulfil the public expectation ; I was 
greatly disappointed, therefore, to find that, as yet, he had con- 
templated no great and sustained effort. My disappointment 
in this respect was shared by others, who took the same inter- 
est in his famej and entertained the same idea of his capacity. 
" There he is, cooped up in Sydenham," said a great Edinburgh 
critic * to me, " simmering his brains to serve up a little dish 
of poetry, instead of pouring out a whole caldron." 

Scott, too, who took a cordial delight in Campbell's poetry, 
expressed himself to the same effect. "What a pity is it," 
said he to me, " that Campbell does not give full sweep to his 
genius. He has wings that would bear him up to the skies, 
and he does, now and then, spread them grandly, but folds 
them up again and resumes his perch, as if afraid to launch 
away. The fact is, he is a bugbear to himself. The bright-' 
ness of his early success is a detriment to all his future ef- 
forts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before 
him." 

Little was Scott aware at the time that he, in truth, was a 
"bugbear" to Campbell. This I infer from an observation of 
Mrs. Campbell's in reply to an expression of regret on my 
* Jeffrey. 



138 • THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

part that her husband did not attempt something on a grand 
scale. "It is unfortunate for Campbell," said she, "that he 
\J lives in the same age with Scott and Byron." I asked why. 
" Oh," said she, " they write so much and so rapidly. Now 
Campbell writes slowly, and it takes him some time to get 
under way ; and just as he has fairly begun, out comes one of 
their poems, that sets the world agog and quite daunts him, so 
that he throws by his pen in despair." 

I pointed out the essential difference in their kinds of poe- 
try, and the qualities which insured perpetuity to that of her 
husband. " You can't persuade Campbell of that," said she. 
" He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his 
own little lights put out whenever they come blazing out with 
their great torches." 

I repeated the conversation to Scott some time afterward, 
and it drew forth a characteristic comment. 

" Pooh ! " said he, good humoredly, " how can Campbell 
mistake the matter so much. Poetry goes by quality, not by 
bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, 
with a cunning hand, and may pass well in the market as long 
as cairngorms are the fashion ; but they are mere Scotch 
pebbles after all ; now Tom Campbell's are real diamonds, 
and diamonds of the first water." 

I have not time at present to furnish personal anecdotes of 
my intercourse with Campbell, neither does it afford any of 
a striking nature. Though extending over a number of years, 
it was never very intimate. His residence in the country, and 
my own long intervals of absence on the Continent, rendered 
our meetings few and far between. To tell the truth, I was 
not much drawn to Campbell, having taken up a wrong no- 
tion concerning him from seeing him at times when his mind 



1/ 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 139 

was ill at ease, and preyed upon by secret griefs. I thought 
him disposed to be querulous and captious, and had heard his 
apparent discontent attributed to jealous repining at the suc- 
cess of his poetical contemporaries. In a word, I knew little 
of him but what might be learned in the casual intercourse 
of general society ; whereas it required the close communion 
of confidential friendship to sound the depths of his character 
and know the treasures of excellence hidden beneath its sur- 
face. Besides, he was dogged for years by certain malignant 
scribblers, who took a pleasure in misrepresenting all his ac- 
tions, and holding him up in an absurd and disparaging point 
of view. In what this hostility originated I do not know, but 
it must have given much annoyance to his sensitive mind, and 
may have affected his popularity. I know not to what else 
to attribute a circumstance to which I was a witness during 
my last visit to England. It was at an annual dinner of the 
Literary Fund, at which Prince Albert presided, and where 
was collected much of the prominent talent of the kingdom. 
In the course of the evening Campbell rose to make a speech. 
I had not seen him for years, and his appearance showed the 
effect of age and ill health ; it was evident, also, that his 
mind was obfuscated by the wine he had been drinking. He 
was confused and tedious in his remarks ; still, there was noth- 
ing but what one would have thought would be received with 
indulgence, if not deference, from a veteran of his fame and 
standing, — a living classic. On the contrary, to my surprise, 
I soon observed signs of impatience in the company ; the poet 
was repeatedly interrupted by coughs and discordant sounds, 
and as often endeavored to proceed ; the noise at length be- 
came intolerable, and he was absolutely clamored down, sink- 
ing into his chair overwhelmed and disconcerted. I could not 



140 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

have thought such treatment possible to such a person at such 
a meeting. 

Hailam, author of the " Literary History of the Middle Ages," 
who sat by me on this occasion, marked the mortification of 
the poet, and it excited his generous sympathy. Being shortly 
afterward on the floor to reply to a toast, he took occasion to 
advert to the recent remarks of Campbell, and in so doing- 
called up in review all his eminent achievements in the world 
of letters, and drew such a picture of his claims upon popular 
gratitude and popular admiration as to convict the assembly 
of the glaring impropriety they had been guilty of — to soothe 
the wounded sensibility of the poet, and send him home to, I 
trust, a quiet pillow. 

I mention these things to illustrate the merit of the piece 
of biography which you are about to lay before the American 
world. It is a great act of justice to the memory of a dis- 
tinguished man, whose character has not been sufficiently 
known. It gives an insight into his domestic as well as his 
literary life, and lays open the springs of all his actions and 
the causes of all his contrariety of conduct. We now see the 
real difficulties he had to contend with in the earlier part of 
his literary career; the worldly cares which pulled his spirit 
to the earth whenever it would wing its way to the skies ; the 
domestic afflictions, tugging at his heart-strings even in his 
hours of genial intercourse, and converting his very smiles 
into spasms ; the anxious days and sleepless nights preying 
upon his delicate organization, producing that morbid sensi- 
tiveness and nervous irritability which at times overlaid the 
real sweetness and amenity of his nature, and obscured the 
unbounded generosity of his heart. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 141 

The biography does more ; it reveals the affectionate con- 
siderateness of his conduct in all the domestic relations of life. 
The generosity with which he shared his narrow means with 
all the members of his family, and tasked his precarious re- 
sources to add to their relief; his deep-felt tenderness as a 
husband and a father, — the source of exquisite home-happiness 
for a time, but ultimately of unmitigated wretchedness ; his 
constant and devoted friendships, which in early life were al- 
most romantic passions, and which remained unwithered by 
age ; his sympathies with the distressed of every nation, class, 
and condition ; his love of children, that infallible sign of a 
gentle and amiable nature ; his sensibility to beauty of every 
kind; his cordial feeling toward his literary contemporaries, 
so opposite to the narrow and despicable jealousy imputed to 
him ; above all, the crowning romance of his life, his enthu- 
siasm in the cause of suffering Poland, a devotion carried to 
the height of his poetic temperament, and, in fact, exhausting 
all that poetic vein which, properly applied, might have pro- 
duced epics ; these and many more traits set forth in his 
biography bring forth his character in its true light ; dispel 
those clouds which malice and detraction may at times have 
cast over it ; and leave it in the full effulgence of its poetic 
glory. 

This is all, gentlemen, that the hurried nature of personal 
occupations leaves me leisure to say on this subject. If these 
brief remarks will be of any service in recommending the bi- 
ography to the attention of the American public, you are 
welcome to make such use of them as you may think proper ; 
and I shall feel satisfaction in putting on record my own re- 
cantation of the erroneous opinion I once entertained, and may 



142 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

have occasionally expressed, of the private character of an il- 
lustrious poet, whose moral worth is now shown to have been 
fully equal to his exalted genius. 

Your obedient servant, 

Washington Irving. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

I first became acquainted with Washington Allston early 
in the spring of 1805. He had just arrived from France, I 
from Sicily and Naples. I was then not quite twenty-two years 
of age, he a little older. There was something, to me, inex- 
pressibly engaging in the appearance and manners of Allston. 
I do not think I have ever been more completely captivated on 
a first acquaintance. He was of a light and graceful form, 
with large blue eyes, and black silken hair, waving and curling 
round a pale expressive countenance. Everything about him 
bespoke the man of intellect and refinement. His conversa- 
tion was copious, animated, and highly graphic ; warmed by a 
genial sensibility and benevolence, and enlivened at times by a 
chaste and gentle humor. A young man's intimacy took place 
immediately between us, and we were much together during 
my brief sojourn at Rome. He was taking a general view of 
the place before settling himself down to his professional studies. 
We visited together some of the finest collections of paintings, 
and he taught me how to visit them to the most advantage, 
guiding me always to the masterpieces, and passing by the 
others without notice. " Never attempt to enjoy every picture 
in a great collection," he would say, " unless you have a year 
to bestow upon it. You may as well attempt to enjoy every 
dish in a Lord Mayor's feast. Both mind and palate get con- 
founded by a great variety and rapid succession, even of deli- 
cacies. The mind can only take in a certain number of images 



144 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

and impressions distinctly ; by multiplying the number you 
weaken each, and render the whole confused and vague. Study 
the choice pieces in each collection ; look upon none else, and 
you will afterwards find them hanging up in your memory." 
He was exquisitely sensible to the graceful and the beautiful, 
and took great delight in paintings which excelled in color ; 
yet he was strongly moved and roused by objects of grandeur. 
I well recollect the admiration with which he contemplated the 
sublime statue of Moses by Michael Angelo, and his mute awe 
and reverence on entering the stupendous pile of St. Peter's. 
Indeed the sentiment of veneration so characteristic of the 
elevated and poetic mind was continually manifested by him. 
His eyes would dilate ; his pale countenance would flush ; he 
would breathe quick, and almost gasp in expressing his feelings 
when excited by any object of grandeur and sublimity. 

We had delightful rambles together about Rome and its 
environs, one of which came near changing my whole course 
of life. We had been visiting a stately villa, with its gallery 
of paintings, its marble halls, its terraced gardens set out with 
statues and fountains, and were returning to Rome about sun- 
set. The blandness of the air, the serenity of the sky, the 
transparent purity of the atmosphere, and that nameless charm 
which hangs about an Italian landscape, had derived additional 
effect from being enjoyed in company with Allston, and pointed 
out by him with the enthusiasm of an artist. As I listened to 
him, and gazed upon the landscape, I drew in my mind a con- 
trast between our different pursuits and prospects. He was 
to reside among these delightful scenes, surrounded by master* 
pieces of art, by classic and historic monuments, by men of 
congenial minds and tastes, engaged like him in the constant 
study of the sublime and beautiful. I was to return home to 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 145 

the dry study of the law, for which I had no relish, and, as I 
feared, but little talent. 

Suddenly the thought presented itself, " Why might I not 
remaiu here and turn painter ? " I had taken lessons in draw- 
ing before leaving America, and had been thought to have 
some aptness, as I certainly had a strong inclination for it. 
I mentioned the idea to Allston, and he caught at it with 
eagerness. Nothing- could be more feasible. We would take 
an Apartment together. He would give me all the instruction 
and assistance in his power, and was sure I would succeed. 

" For two or three days the idea took full possession of my 
mind ; but I believe it owed its main force to the lovely even- 
ing ramble in which I first conceived it, and to the romantic 
friendship I had formed with Allston. Whenever it recurred to 
mind, it was always connected with beautiful Italian scenery, 
palaces, and statues, and fountains, and terraced gardens, and 
Allston as the companion of my studio. I promised myself a 
world of enjoyment in his society, and in the society of several 
artists with whom he had made me acquainted, and pictured 
forth a scheme of life, all tinted with the rainbow hues of youth- 
ful promise. 

My lot in life, however, was differently cast. Doubts and 
fears gradually clouded over my prospect ; the rainbow tints 
faded away ; I began to apprehend a sterile reality ; so I gave 
up the transient but delightful prospect of remaining in Rome 
with Allston and turning painter. 

My next meeting with Allston was in America, after he had 
finished his studies in Italy ; but as we resided in different 
cities we saw each other only occasionally. Our intimacy was 
closer some years afterwards when we were both in England, 
I then saw a great deal of him during my visits to London, 



146 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

where he and Leslie resided together. Allston was dejected 
in spirits from the loss of his wife, but I thought a dash of 
melancholy had increased the amiable and winning graces of 
his character. I used to pass long evenings with him and 
Leslie ; indeed Allston, if any one would keep him company, 
would sit up until cock-crowing, and it was hard to break 
away from the charms of his conversation. He was an admir- 
able story-teller ; for a ghost-story none could surpass him. He 
acted the story as well as told it. 

I have seen some anecdotes of him in the public papers, 
which represent him in a state of indigence and almost despair, 
until rescued by the sale of one of his paintings.* This is an 
exaggeration. I subjoin an extract or two from his letters to 
me, relating to his most important pictures. The first, dated 
May 9, 1817, was addressed to me at Liverpool, where he sup- 
posed I was about to embark for the United States. 

" Your sudden resolution of embarking for America has quite thrown 
me, to use a sea phrase, all aback. I have so many things to tell you 
of, to consult you about, &c, and am such. a sad correspondent, that 
before I can bring my pen to do its office, 't is a hundred to one but 
the vexations for which your advice would be wished, will have passed 
and gone. One of these subjects (and the most important) is the 
large picture 1 talked of soon beginning ; the prophet Daniel inter- 
preting the hand-writing on the wall before Belshazzar. I have made 
a highly finished sketch of it, and I wished much to have your remarks 
on it. But as your sudden departure will deprive me of this advan- 
tage, I must beg, should any hints on the*.subject occur to you during 
your voyage, that you will favor me with them, at the same time you 
let me know that you are again safe in our good country. 

" I think the composition the best I ever made. It contains a mul- 
titude of figures, and (if I may be allowed to say it) they are without 
* Anecdotes of Artists. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 147 

confusion. Don't you think it a fine subject? I know not any that 
so happily unites the magnificent and the awful. A mighty sovereign 
surrounded by his whole court, intoxicated with his own state, in the 
midst of his revellings, palsied in a moment under the spell of a pre- 
ternatural hand suddenly tracing his doom on the wall before him ; 
his powerless limbs, like a wounded spider's, shrunk up to his body, 
while his heart, compressed to a point, is only kept from vanishing by 
the terrific suspense that animates it during the interpretation of his 
mysterious sentence. His less guilty, but scarcely less agitated, queen, 
the panic-struck courtiers and concubines, the splendid and deserted 
banquet-table, the half-arrogant, half-astounded magicians, the holy 
vessels of the temple, (shining as it were in triumph through the gloom), 
and the calm solemn contrast of the prophet, standing like an animated 
pillar in the midst, breathing forth the oracular destruction of the 
empire ! The picture will be twelve feet high by seventeen feet long. 
Should I succeed in it to my wishes, I know not what may be its 
fate ; but I leave the future to Providence, perhaps I may send it to 
America." 

The next letter from Allston which remains in my posses- 
sion, is dated London, 13th March, 1818. In the interim he 
had visited Paris, in company with Leslie and Newton ; the 
following extract gives the result of the excitement caused by 
a study of the masterpieces in the Louvre. 

" Since my return from Paris I have painted two pictures, in order 
to have something in the present exhibition at the British gallery ; 
the subjects, the ' Angel Uriel in the Sun,' and ' Elijah in the Wil- 
derness.' Uriel was immediately purchased, (at the price I asked, 
150 guineas,) by the Marquis of Stafford, and the Directors of the 
British Institution, moreover, presented me a donation of a hundred 
and fifty pounds, as a mark of their approbation of the talent evinced, 
&c. The manner in which this was done was highly complimentary , 
and I can only say that it was full as gratifying as it was unexpected. 



148 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

As both these pictures together cost me but ten weeks, I do not regret 
having deducted that time from the ' Belshazzar,' to whom I have 
since returned with redoubled vigor. I am sorry I did not exhibit 
1 Jacob's Dream.' If I had dreamt of this success, I certainly would 
have sent it there." 

Leslie, in a letter to me, speaks of the picture of Uriel seated 
in the sun. 

" The figure is colossal, the attitude and air very noble, and the 
form heroic without being overcharged. In the color he has been 
equally successful, and with a very rich and glowing tone he has 
avoided positive colors, which would have made him too material. 
There is neither red, blue, nor yellow on the picture, and yet it pos- 
sesses a harmony equal to the best pictures of Paul Veronese." 

The picture made what is called " a decided hit," and pro- 
duced a great sensation, being pronounced worthy of the old 
masters. Attention was immediately called to the artist. The 
Earl of Egremont, a great connoisseur and patron of the arts, 
sought him in his studio, eager for any production from his 
pencil. He found an admirable picture there, of which he 
became the glad possessor. The following is an extract from 
Allston's letter to me on the subject : — 

" Leslie tells me he has informed you of the sale of ' Jacob's Dream.' 
I do not remember if you have seen it. The manner in which Lord 
Egremont bought it was particularly gratifying — to say nothing of 
the price, which is no trifle to me at present. But Leslie having told 
you all about it, I will not repeat it. Indeed by the account he gives 
me of his letter to you, he seems to have puffed me off in grand style. 
Well — you know I don't bribe him to do it, and ' if they will buckle 
praise upon my back,' why, I can't help it ! Leslie has just finished a 
very beautiful little picture of Anne Page inviting Master Slender 
into the house. Anne is exquisite, soft and feminine, yet arch and 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 149 

playful. She is all she should be. Slender also is very happy ; he 
is a good parody on Milton's ' linked sweetness long drawn out/ 
FalstafF and Shallow are seen through a window in the background. 
The whole scene is very picturesque and beautifully painted. 'Tis 
his best picture. You must not think this praise the ' return in kind.' 
I give it because I really admire the picture, and I have not the 
smallest doubt that he will do great things when he is once freed from 
the necessity of painting portraits." 

Lord Egremont was equally well pleased with the artist as 
with his works, and invited him to his noble seat at Petworth, 
where it was his delight to dispense his hospitalities to men of 
genius. 

The road to fame and fortune was now open to Allston ; he 
had but to remain in England, and follow up the signal im- 
pression he had made. Unfortunately, previous to this recent 
success he had been disheartened by domestic afliction, and 
by the uncertainty of his pecuniary prospects, and had made 
arrangements to return to America. I arrived in London a 
few days before his departure, full of literary schemes, and 
delighted with the idea of our pursuing our several arts in 
fellowship. It was a sad blow to me to have this day-dream 
again dispelled. I urged him to remain and complete his 
grand painting of " Belshazzar's Feast," the study of which 
gave promise of the highest kind of excellence. Some of the 
best patrons of the art were equally urgent. He was not to 
be persuaded, and I saw him depart with still deeper and 
more painful regret than I had parted with him in our youth- 
ful days at Rome. I think our separation was a loss to both 
of us — to me a grievous one. The companionship of such 
a man was invaluable. For his own part, had he remained 
in England for a few years longer, surrounded by everything 



150 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

to encourage and stimulate him, I have no doubt he would 
have been at the head of his art. He appeared to me to pos- 
sess more than any contemporary the spirit of the old mas- 
ters ; and his merits were becoming widely appreciated. After 
his departure he was unanimously elected a member of the 
Royal Academy. 

The next time I saw him was twelve years afterwards, on 
my return to America, when I visited him at his studio at Cam- 
bridge in Massachusetts, and found him in the gray evening 
of life, apparently much retired from the world ; and his grand 
picture of " Belshazzar's Feast" yet unfinished. 

To the last he appeared to retain all those elevated, refined, 
and gentle qualities which first endeared him to me. 

Such are a few particulars of my intimacy with Allston, — a 
man whose memory I hold in reverence and affection, as one 
of the purest, noblest, and most intellectual beings that ever 
honored me with his friendship. 



CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 

FROM BOUGH NOTES IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 

Paris, April 25, 1821. Made a call with a friend, this morn- 
ing, to be introduced to Talma, the great French tragedian. 
He has a suite of apartments in a hotel in the Rue Des Petites 
Angustines, but is about to build a town residence. He has 
also a country retreat a few miles from Paris, of which he is 
extremely fond, and is continually altering and improving it. 
He had just arrived from the country, and his apartment was 
rather in confusion, the furniture out of place and books 
lying about. In a conspicuous part of the saloon was a col- 
ored engraving of John Philip Kemble, for whom he ex- 
presses great admiration and regard. 

Talma is about five feet seven or eight inches, English, in 
height, and somewhat robust. There is no very tragic or 
poetic expression in his countenance ; his eyes are of a bluish 
gray, with, at times, a peculiar cast ; his face is rather fleshy, 
yet flexible ; and he has a short, thick neck. His manners are 
open, animated, and natural. He speaks English well, and is 
prompt, unreserved, and copious in conversation. 

He received me in a very cordial manner, and asked if 
this was my first visit to Paris. I told him I had been here 
once before, about fourteen years since. 

" Ah ! that was the time of the Emperor ! " cried he, with 
a sudden gleam of the eye. 



152 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 

"Yes, just after his coronation as King of Italy." 

" Ah ! those were the heroic days of Paris — every day 
some new victory ! The real chivalry of France rallied round 
the Emperor, — the youth and talent and bravery of the 
nation. Now you see the courts of the Tuileries crowded by 
priests, and an old, worn-out nobility brought back by foreign 
bayonets." 

He consoled himself by observing that the national charac- 
ter had improved under its reverses. Its checks and humilia- 
tions had made the nation more thoughtful. 

"Look at the young men from the colleges," said he; 
"how serious they are in their demeanor. They walk to- 
gether in the public promenades, conversing always on politi- 
cal subjects, but discussing politics philosophically and scien- 
tifically. In fact, the nation is becoming as grave as the 
English." 

He thinks too that there is likely to be a great change in 
the French drama. " The public," said he, " feel greater 
interest in scenes that come home to common life, and in the 
fortunes of every-day people, than in the distresses of the 
heroic personages of classic antiquity. Hence they never 
come to the Theatre Fra^ais, excepting to see a few great 
actors, while they crowd to the minor theatres to witness repre- 
sentations of scenes in ordinary life. " The Revolution," *added 
he, " has caused such vivid and affecting scenes to pass before 
their eyes, that they can no longer be charmed by fine periods 
and declamation. They require character, incident, passion, 
life." 

He seems to apprehend another revolution, and that it will 
be a bloody one. " The nation," said he, " that is to say, the 
younger part of it, the children of the Revolution, have such a 



CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 153 

hatred of the priests and the nohlesse, that they would fly upon 
them like wolves upon sheep." 

On coming away, he accompanied us to the door. In pass- 
ing through the ante-chamber, I pointed to children's swords 
and soldiers' caps lying on a table. " Ah ! " cried he, with 
animation, "the amusements of the children nowadays are 
all military. They will have nothing to play with but swords, 
guns, drums, and trumpets." 

Such are the few brief notes of my first interview with 
Talma. Some time afterward I dined in company with him 
at Beauvillier's Restaurant. He was in fine spirits, gay and 
earnest by turns, and always perfectly natural and unreserved. 

He spoke with pleasure of his residence in England. He 
liked the English. They were a noble people ; but he thought 
the French more amiable and agreeable to live among. " The 
intelligent and cultivated English," he said, " are disposed to 
do generous actions, but the common people are not so liberal 
as the same class among the French ; they have bitter national 
prejudices. If a French prisoner escaped in England, the 
common people would be against him. In France it was 
otherwise. When the fight was going on around Paris," said 
he, "and Austrian and other prisoners were brought in 
wounded, and conducted along the Boulevards, the Parisian 
populace showed great compassion for them, and gave them 
money, bread, and wine." 

Of the liberality of the cultivated class of English he gave 
an anecdote. Two French prisoners had escaped from con- 
finement, and made their way to a sea-port, intending to get 
over in a boat to France. All their money, however, was 
exhausted, and they had not wherewithal to hire a boat. See- 
ing a banker's name on a door, they went in, stated their case 



K>4 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA 

frankly, and asked for pecuniary assistance, promising to repay 
it faithfully. The banker at once gave them one hundred 
pounds. They offered a bill, or receipt, but he declined it. 
" If you are not men of honor," said he, " such paper would 
be of no value ; and if you are men of honor, there is no 
need of it." This circumstance was related to Talma by one 
of the parties thus obliged. 

In the course of conversation, we talked of the theatre. 
Talma had been a close observer of the British stage, and 
was alive to many of its merits. He spoke of his efforts to 
introduce into French acting the familiar style occasionally 
used by the best English tragedians ; and of the difficulties 
he encountered in the stately declamation and constantly 
recurring rhymes of French tragedy. Still he found, he said, 
every familiar touch of Nature immediately appreciated and 
applauded by the French audience. Of Shakspeare he ex- 
pressed the most exalted opinion, and said he should like to 
attempt some of his principal characters in English, could he 
be sure of being able to render the text without a foreign 
accent. He had represented his character of Hamlet, trans- 
lated into French, in the Theatre Francais with great success ; 
but he felt how much more powerful it would be if given as 
Shakspeare had written it. He spoke with admiration of the 
individuality of Shakspeare's characters and the varied play 
of his language, giving such a scope for familiar touches of 
pathos and tenderness, and natural outbreaks of emotion and 
passion. " All this," he observed, " requires quite a different 
style of acting from the well-balanced verse, flowing periods, 
and recurring rhymes of the French drama; and it would, 
doubtless, require much study and practice to catch the spirit 
of it ; and after all," added he, laughing, " I should probably 



CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 155 

fail Each stage has its own peculiarities which belong to 
the nation, and cannot be thoroughly caught, nor perhaps 
thoroughly appreciated by strangers." 



[To the foregoing scanty notes were appended some desul- 
tory observations made at the time, and suggested by my con- 
versations with Talma. They were intended to form the basis 
of some speculations on the French literature of the day, which 
were never carried out. They are now given very much in 
the rough style in which they were jotted down, with some 
omissions and abbreviations, but no heightenings nor addi- 
tions.] 



The success of a translation of " Hamlet " in the Theatre 
Franjais appears to me an era in the French drama. It is 
true, the play has been sadly mutilated and stripped of some 
of its most characteristic beauties in the attempt to reduce it 
to the naked stateliness of the pseudo-classic drama ; but it 
retains enough of the wild magnificence of Shakspeare's im- 
agination to give it an individual character on the French 
stage. Though the ghost of Hamlet's father does not actually 
tread the boards, yet it is supposed to hover about his son, 
unseen by other eyes ; and the admirable acting of Talma 
conveys to the audience a more awful and mysterious idea of 
this portentous visitation than could be produced by any visi- 
ble spectre. I have seen a lady carried fainting from the 
boxes, overcome by its effect on her imagination. In this trans- 
lation and modification of the original play, Hamlet's mother 
stabs herself before the audience, a catastrophe hitherto un 



156 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 

known on the grand theatre, and repugnant to the French 
idea of classic rule. 

The popularity of this play is astonishing. On the evenings 
of its representation the doors of the theatre are besieged at 
an early hour. Long before the curtain rises, the house is 
crowded to overflowing ; and throughout the performance the 
audience passes from intervals of breathless attention to bursts 
of ungovernable applause. 

The success of this tragedy may be considered one of the 
triumphs of what is denominated the romantic school; and an- 
other has been furnished by the overwhelming reception of 
" Marie Stuart," a modification of the German tragedy of Schil- 
ler. The critics of the old school are sadly alarmed at these 
foreign innovations, and tremble for the ancient decorum and 
pompous proprieties of their stage. It is true, both " Hamlet " 
and " Marie Stuart " have been put in the strait "waistcoat of 
Aristotle ; yet they are terribly afraid they will do mischief and 
set others madding. They exclaim against the apostacy of 
their countrymen in bowing to foreign idols, and against the 
degeneracy of their taste, after being accustomed from infancy 
to the touching beauties and harmonious numbers of " Athalie," 
"Polyeucte," and "Merope," in relishing these English and 
German monstrosities, and that through the medium of trans- 
lation. All in vain ! the nightly receipts at the doors out- 
weigh, with managers, all the invectives of the critics, and 
" Hamlet " and u Marie Stuart " maintain triumphant possession 
of the boards. 

Talma assures me that it begins to be quite the fashion in 
France to admire Shakspeare ; and those w T ho cannot read 
him in English enjoy him diluted in French translations. 

It may at first create a smile of incredulity that foreigners 



CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 157 

should pretend to feel and appreciate the merits of an author 
so recondite at times as to require commentaries and explana- 
tions even to his own countrymen ; yet it is precisely writers 
like Shakspeare, so full of thought, of character, and passion, 
that are most likely to be relished, even when but partially un- 
derstood. Authors whose popularity arises from beauty of dic- 
tion and harmony of numbers are ruined by translation ; a 
beautiful turn of expression, a happy combination of words 
and phrases, and all the graces of perfect euphony, are limited 
to the language in which they are written. Style cannot be 
translated. The most that can be done is to furnish a par- 
allel, and render grace for grace. Who can form an idea of 
the exquisite beauties of Racine, when translated into a for- 
eign tongue ? But Shakspeare triumphs over translation. His 
scenes are so exuberant in original and striking thoughts and 
masterly strokes of nature, that he can afford to be stripped of 
all the magic of his style. His volumes are like the magician's 
cave in "' Aladdin," so full of jewels and precious things, that 
he who does but penetrate for a moment may bring away 
enough to enrich himself. 

The relish for Shakspeare, however, which, according to 
Talma, is daily increasing in France, is, I apprehend, but one 
indication of a general revolution which is taking place in the 
national taste. The French character, as Talma well observes, 
has materially changed during the last thirty years. The pres- 
ent generation, (the " children of the Revolution," as Talma 
terms them,) who are just growing into the full exercise of 
talent, are a different people from the French of the old regime. 
They have grown up in rougher times, and among more ad- 
venturous and romantic habitudes. They are less delicate in 

tact, but stronger in their feelings, and require more stirau- 

7* 



158 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 

lating aliment. The Frenchman of the camp who has biv- 
ouacked on the Danube and the Volga ; jvho has brought back 
into peaceful life the habits of the soldier ; who wears fierce 
moustaches, swaggers in his gait, and smokes tobacco, is, of 
course, a different being in his literary tastes from the French- 
man of former times, who was refined but finical in dress and 
manners, wore powder, and delighted in perfumes and polished 
versification. 

The whole nation, in fact, has been accustomed for years to 
the glitter of arms and the parade of soldiery ; to tales of bat- 
tles, sieges, and victories. The feverish drama of the Revolu- 
tion, and the rise and fall of Napoleon, have passed before 
their eyes like a tale of Arabian enchantment. Though these 
realities have passed away, the remembrances of them remain, 
with a craving for the strong emotions which they excited. 

This may account in some measure for that taste for the 
romantic which is growing upon the French nation, a taste 
vehemently but vainly reprobated by their critics. You see 
evidence of it in everything ; in their paintings, in the engrav- 
ings which fill their print-shops ; in their songs, their spec- 
tacles, and their works of fiction. For several years it has 
been making its advances without exciting the jealousy of the 
critics ; its advances being apparently confined to the lower 
regions of literature and the arts. The circulating libraries 
have been filled with translations of English and German ro- 
mances, and tales of ghosts and robbers, and the theatres of 
the Boulevards occupied by representations of melo-dramas. 
Still the higher regions of literature remained unaffected, and 
the national theatre retained its classic stateliness and severity 
The critics consoled themselves with the idea that the romances 
were only read by women and children, and the melo-dramas 



CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 159 

admired by the ignorant and vulgar. But the children have 
grown up to be men and women ; and the tinge given to their 
imaginations in early life is now to have an effect on the forth- 
coming literature of the country. As yet, they depend for 
their romantic aliment upon the literature of other nations, 
especially the English and Germans ; and it is astonishing 
with what promptness the Scottish novels, notwithstanding 
their dialects, are translated into French, and how universally 
and eagerly they are sought after. 

In poetry Lord Byron is the vogue ; his verses are trans- 
lated into a kind of stilted prose, and devoured with ecstacy, 
they are si sombre I His likeness is in every print-shop. The 
Parisians envelop him with melancholy and mystery, and be- 
lieve him to be the hero of his own poems, or something of 
the vampyre order. A French poem has lately appeared in 
imitation of him* the author of which has caught, in a great 
degree, his glowing style and deep and troubled emotions. 
The great success of this production insures an inundation of 
the same kind of poetry from inferior hands. In a little while 
we shall see the petty poets of France, like those of England, 
affecting to be moody and melancholy, each wrapping himself 
in a little mantle of mystery and misanthropy, vaguely accusing 
himself of heinous crimes, and affecting to despise the world. 

That this taste for the romantic will have its way, and give 
a decided tone to French literature, I am strongly inclined to 
believe. The human mind delights in variety, and abhors 
monotony even in excellence. Nations, like individuals, grow 
sated with artificial refinements, and their pampered palates 
require a change of diet, even though it be for the worse. I 
should not be surprised, therefore, to see the French breaking 
* The 



160 CONVERSATIONS WITH TALMA. 

away from rigid rule ; from polished verse, easy narrative, the 
classic drama, and all the ancient delights of elegant literature, 
and rioting in direful romances, melo-dramatic plays, turgid 
prose, and glowing rough-written poetry. 
Paris, 1821 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 



[A biographical sketch of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who died on the 27th of 
August, 1825, just a month before her seventeenth birthday, was written by 
Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse, and prefixed to a collection of her poetic remains, pub- 
lished in 1829, under the title of" Amir Khan and other Poems." * In a notice 
of this volume in the " London Quarterly Review," Southey remarks: " In out 
own language, except in the cases of Chatterton and Kirk White, we can call to 
mind no instance of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual 
advancement." 

The biography of Margaret Miller Davidson, her no less remarkable sister, 
who died in 1838, four months before she had attained her sixteenth year, was 
prepared by Mr. Irving in 1840, and prefixed to an edition of her literary remains 
in 1841. The copyright Avas transferred to her mother, at whose request the 
Memoir was written, Mr. Irving reserving merely the right to publish it at any 
time in connection with his other writings. It has been Jong out of print, and is 
now for the first time included with his works. 

In allusion to this touching narrative, the author remarks in one of his letters: 
'' In the Spring I shall publish a biography of Miss Margaret Davidson, with her 
posthumous writings. She was a sister of Lucretia Davidson, whose biography 
you may have read, — a lovely American girl, of surprising precocity of poetical 
talent. The one whose biography I have just written died a year or two since. 
It is made up in a great degree from memorandums furnished by her mother, 
who is almost of as poetical a temperament as her children. The most affecting 
passages of the biography are quoted literally from her manuscript." — Ed.] 

* A more copious Memoir was afterwards written by Miss Sedgwick for Sparks^s Ameri- 
can Biography. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The reading world has long set a cherishing value on the 
name of Lucretia Davidson, a lovely American girl, who, after 
giving early promise of rare poetic excellence, was snatched 
from existence in the seventeenth year of her age. An in- 
teresting biography of her by President Morse of the American 
Society of Arts, was published shortly after her death; another 
has since appeared from the classic pen of Miss Sedgwick, and 
her name has, derived additional celebrity in Great Britain 
from an able article by Robert Southey, inserted some years 
since in the " London Quarterly Review." 

An intimate acquaintance in early life with some of the 
relatives of Miss Davidson had caused me, while in Europe, 
to read with great interest everything concerning her ; when, 
therefore, in 1833, about a year after my return to the United 
States, I was told, while in New York, that Mrs. Davidson, the 
mother of the deceased, was in the city and desirous of con- 
sulting me about a new edition of her daughter's works, I lost 
no time in waiting upon her. Her appearance corresponded 
with the interesting idea given of her in her daughter's bi- 
ography ; she was feeble and emaciated, and supported by pil- 
lows in an easy-chair, but there were the lingerings of grace and 
beauty in her form and features, and her eyes still beamed with 
intelligence and sensibility. 

While conversing with her on the subject of her daughter's 
works I observed a young girl, apparently not more than 



164 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

eleven years of age, moving quietly about her; occasionally 
arranging a pillow, and at the same time listening earnestly to 
our conversation. There was an intellectual beauty about this 
child that struck me ; and that was heightened by a blushing 
diffidence when Mrs. Davidson presented her to me as her 
daughter Margaret. Shortly afterwards, on her leaving the 
room, her mother, seeing that she had attracted my attention, 
spoke of her as having evinced the same early poetical talent 
that had distinguished her sister, and as evidence, showed me 
several copies of verses remarkable for such a child. On 
further inquiry, I found that she had very nearly the same 
moral and physical constitution, and was prone to the same 
feverish excitement of the mind, and kindling of the imagin- 
ation that had acted so powerfully on the fragile frame of her 
sister Lucretia. I cautioned her mother, therefore, against 
fostering her poetic vein, and advised such studies and pursuits 
as would tend to strengthen her judgment, calm and regulate 
the sensibilities, and enlarge that common sense which is the 
only safe foundation for all intellectual superstructure. 

I found Mrs. Davidson fully aware of the importance of such 
a course of treatment, and disposed to pursue it, but saw at the 
same time that she would have difficulty to carry it into effect ; 
having to contend with the additional excitement produced in 
the mind of this sensitive little being by the example of her 
sister, and the intense enthusiasm she evinced concerning her. 

Three years elapsed before I again saw the subject of this 
memoir. She was then residing with her mother at a rural 
retreat in the neighborhood of New York. The interval that 
had elapsed had rapidly developed the powers of her mind, 
and heightened the loveliness of her person, but my appre- 
hensions had been verified. The soul was wearing out the 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 165 

body. Preparations were making to take her on a tour for the 
benefit of her health, and her mother appeared to flatter her- 
self that it might prove efficacious ; but when I noticed the 
fragile delicacy of her form, the hectic bloom of her cheek, 
and the almost unearthly lustre of her eye, I felt convinced 
that she was not long for this world ; in truth, she already ap- 
peared more spiritual than mortal. We parted, and I never 
saw her more. Within three years afterwards a number of 
manuscripts were placed in my hands, as all that was left of 
her. They were accompanied by copious memoranda concern- 
ing her, furnished by her mother at my request. From these I 
have digested and arranged the following particulars, adopting 
in many places the original manuscript, without alteration. 
In fact, the narrative will be found almost as illustrative of 
the character of the mother as of the child; they were sin- 
gularly identified in taste, feelings, and pursuits; tenderly 
entwined together by maternal and filial affection ; they re- 
flected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each 
other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be 
marring one of the most beautiful and affecting groins in the 
history of modern literature, to sunder them. 

Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of Dr. 
Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was born at the family 
residence on Lake Champlain, in the village of Plattsburgh, 
on the 26th of March, 1823. She evinced fragility of con- 
stitution from her very birth. Her sister Lucretia, whose brief 
poetical career has been so celebrated in literary history, was 
her early and fond attendant, and some of her most popular 
lays were composed with the infant sporting in her arms. She 
used to gaze upon her little sister with intense delight, and, re- 
marking the uncommon brightness and beauty of her eyes,. 



166 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

would exclaim, "She must, she will be a poet!" The excla- 
mation was natural enough in an enthusiastic girl who regarded 
everything through the medium of her ruling passion ; but it 
was treasured up by her mother, and considered almost pro- 
phetic. Lucretia did not live to see her prediction verified. 
Her brief sojourn upon earth was over before Margaret was 
quite two years and a half old ; yet, to use her mother's fond 
expressions, " On ascending to the skies, it seemed as if her 
poetic mantle fell, like a robe of light, on her infant sister.". 

Margaret, from the first dawnings of intellect, gave evidence 
of being no common child : her ideas and expressions were not 
like those of other children, and often startled by their pre- 
cocity. Her sister's death had made a strong impression on 
her, and, though so extremely young, she already understood 
and appreciated Lucretia's character. An evidence of this, 
and of the singular precocity of thought and expression just 
noticed, occurred but a few months afterwards. As Mrs. 
Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with a female 
friend, Margaret entered the room with a light elastic step, for 
which she was remarked. 

"That child never walks," said the lady; then turning to 
her, " Margaret, where are you flying now ? " said she. 

" To heaven ! " replied she, pointing up with her finger, " to 
meet my sister Lucretia, when I get my new wings." 

" Your new wings ! When will you get them ? " 

" Oh soon, very soon ; and then I shall fly ! " 

" She loved," says her mother, " to sit hour after hour on a 
cushion at my feet, her little arms resting upon my lap, and her 
full dark eyes fixed upon mine, listening to anecdotes of her 
sister's life and details of the events which preceded her death, 
often exclaiming, while her face beamed with mingled emo- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 167 

tions, ' Oh mamma, I will try to fill her place ! Oh teach me 
to be like her ! ' " 

Much of Mrs. Davidson's time was now devoted to her dally 
instruction ; noticing, however, her lively sensibility, the rapid 
development of her mind, and her eagerness for knowledge, 
her lessons were entirely oral, for she feared for the present to 
teach her to read, lest, by too early and severe application, she 
should injure her delicate frame. She had nearly attained her 
fourth year before she was taught to spell. Ill health then 
obliged Mrs. Davidson, for the space of a year, to entrust her 
tuition to a lady in Canada, a valued friend, who had other 
young girls under her care. When she returned home she 
could read fluently, and had commenced letters in writing. It 
was now decided that she should not be placed in any public 
seminary, but that her education should be conducted by her 
mother. The task was rendered delightful by the docility of 
the pupil ; by her affectionate feelings, and quick kindling sen- 
sibilities. This maternal instruction, while it kept her apart 
from the world, and fostered a singular purity and innocence 
of thought, contributed greatly to enhance her imaginative 
powers, for the mother partook largely of the poetical temper- 
ament of the child ; it was, in fact, one poetical spirit minister 
ing to another. 

Among the earliest indications of the poetical character in 
this child were her perceptions of the beauty of natural scenery. 
Her home was in a picturesque neighborhood, calculated to 
awaken and foster such perceptions. The following descrip- 
tion of it is taken from one of her own writings : " There 
stood on the banks of the Saranac a small neat cottage, which 
oeeped forth from the surrounding foliage, the image of rural 
auiet and contentment. An old-fashioned piazza extended 



] G8 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

along the front, shaded with vines and honeysuckles ; the turi 
on the bank of the river was of the richest and brightest 
emerald ; and the wild rose and sweet briar, which twined 
over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with more delicate 
freshness and perfume within the bounds of this earthly para 
dise. The scenery around was wildly yet beautifully romantic ;. 
the clear blue river, glancing and sparkling at its feet, seemed 
only as a preparation for another and more magnificent view, 
when the stream, gliding on to the west, was buried in the 
broad white bosom of Champlain, which stretched back, wave 
after wave in the distance, until lost in faint blue mists that 
veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, seeming more lovely 
from their indistinctness." 

Such were the natural scenes which presented themselves to 
her dawning perceptions, and she is said to have evinced, from 
her earliest childhood, a remarkable sensibility to their charms. 
A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower, would fill her with delight ; 
she would note with surprising discrimination the various ef- 
fects of the weather upon the surrounding landscape ; the 
mountains wrapt in clouds ; the torrents roaring down their 
sides in times of tempest ; the " bright warm sunshine," the 
" cooling shower," the " pale cold moon," for such was already 
her poetical phraseology. A bright starlight night, also, would 
seem to awaken a mysterious rapture in her infant bosom, and 
one of her early expressions in speaking of the stars was, that 
they " shone like the eyes of angels." 

One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal instruction 
was in guiding these kindling perceptions from Nature up to 
Nature's God. 

" I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age her re- 
ligious impressions were imbibed. They seemed to be inter- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 169 

woven with her existence. From the very first exercise of 
reason she evinced strong devotional feelings, and, although 
she loved play, she would at any time prefer seating herself 
beside me, and, with every faculty absorbed in the subject, 
listen while I attempted to recount the wonders of Providence, 
and point out the wisdom and benevolence of God, as mani- 
fested in the works of creation. Her young heart would swell 
with rapture, and the tear would tremble in her eye, when I 
explained to her, that He who clothed the trees with verdure, 
and gave the rose its bloom, had also created her with capa- 
cities to enjoy their beauties : that the same power which 
clothed the mountains with sublimity, made her happiness his 
daily care. Thus a sentiment of gratitude and affection towards 
the Creator entered into all her emotions of delight at the 
wonders and beauties of creation." 

There is nothing more truly poetical than religion when 
properly inculcated, and it will be found that this early piety, 
thus amiably instilled, had the happiest effect upon her through- 
out life ; elevating and ennobling her genius ; lifting her above 
everything gross and sordid ; attuning her thoughts to pure and 
lofty themes; heightening rather than impairing her enjoy- 
ments, and at all times giving an ethereal lightness to her 
spirit. To use her mother's words, " she was like a bird on the 
wing, her fairy form scarcely seemed to touch the earth as she 
passed." She was at times in a kind of ecstasy from the 
excitement of her imagination and the exuberance of her pleas- 
urable sensations. In such moods every object of natural 
l)eauty inspired a degree of rapture always mingled with a 
feeling of gratitude to the Being " who had made so many 
beautiful things for her." In such moods, too, her little heart 
would overflow with love to all around; indeed, adds her 



]"0 51ARGAHET DAVIDSON. 

mother, to love and be beloved was necessary to her existence. 
Private prayer became a habit with her at a very early age ; 
it was almost a spontaneous expression of her feelings, the 
breathings of an affectionate and delighted heart. 

" By the time she was six years old," says Mrs. Davidson, 
" her language assumed an elevated tone, and her mind seemed 
filled with poetic imagery, blended with veins of religious 
thought. At this period I was chiefly confined to my room by 
debility. She was my companion and friend, and, as the greater 
part of my time was devoted to her instruction, she advanced 
rapidly in her studies. She read not only well, but elegantly 
Her love of reading amounted almost to a passion, uad her in- 
telligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with astonishment 
a child little more than six years old, reading with enthusiastic 
delight ' Thompson's Seasons,' the ' Pleasures of Hope,' 
' Cowper's Task,' the writings of Milton, Byron, and Scott, 
and marking, with taste and discrimination, the passages which 
struck her. The sacred writings were her daily studies ; with 
her little Bible on her lap, she usually seated herself near me, 
and there read a chapter from the holy volume. This was a 
duty which she was taught not to perform lightly, and we have 
frequently spent two hours in reading and remarking upon the 
contents of a chapter." 

A tendency to "lisp in numbers," was observed in her 
about this time. She frequently made little impromptus in 
rhyme, without seeming to be conscious that there was any 
thing peculiar in the habit. On one occasion, while standing 
by a window at which her mother was seated, and looking out 
upon a lovely landscape, she exclaimed, — 

" See those lofty, those grand trees; 
Their high tops waving in the breeze; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 171 

They cast their shadows on the ground, 
And spread their fragrance all around." 

Her mother, who had several times been struck by little 
rhyming ejaculations of the kind, now handed her writing im- 
plements, and requested her to write down what she had just 
uttered. She appeared surprised at the request, but complied ; 
writing it down as if it had been prose, without arranging it 
in a stanza, or commencing the lines with capitals ; not seem- 
ing aware that she had rhymed. The notice attracted to this 
impromptu, however, had its effect, whether for good or for 
evil. From that time she wrote some scraps of poetry, or 
rather rhyme, every day, which would be treasured up with 
delight by her mother, who watched with trembling, yet 
almost fascinated anxiety, these premature blossomings of 
poetic fancy. 

On another occasion, towards sunset, as Mrs. Davidson was 
seated by the window of her bed-room, little Margaret ran 
in, greatly excited, exclaiming that there was an awful thunder- 
gust rising, and that the clouds were black as midnight. 

' k I gently drew her to my bosom," says Mrs. Davidson, 
" and after I had soothed her agitation, she seated herself at 
my feet, laid her head in my lap, and gazed at the rising 
storm. As the thunder rolled, she clung closer to my knees, 
and when the tempest burst in all its fury, I felt her tremble. 
I passed my arms round her, but soon found it was not fear 
that agitated her. Her eyes kindled as she watched the war- 
ring elements, until, extending her hand, she exclaimed, — 

' The lightning plays along the sky, 
The thunder rolls and bursts from high ! 
Jehovah's voice amid the storm 
I heard — methinks I see his form, 



172 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

As riding- on tho clouds of even, 

He spreads his glory o'er the heaven.' " 

This, likewise, her mother made her write down at the in- 
stant; thus giving additional impulse to this growing inclina- 
tion. 

I shall select one more instance of this early facility at 
numbers, especially as it involves a case of conscience, credit- 
able to her early powers of self-examination. She had been 
reproved by her mother for some trifling act of disobedience, 
but aggravated her fault by attempting to justify it ; she was, 
therefore, banished to her bed-room until she should become 
sensible of her error. Two hours elapsed without her evinc- 
ing any disposition to yield ; on the contrary, she persisted in 
vindicating her conduct, and accused her mother of injustice. 

Mrs. Davidson mildly reasoned with her ; entreated her to 
examine the spirit by which she was actuated ; placed before 
her the example of our Saviour in submitting to the will of 
his parents ; and, exhorting her to pray to God to assist her, 
and to give her meekness and humility, left her again to her 
reflections. 

" An hour or two afterwards," says Mrs. Davidson, " she 
desired I would admit her. I sent word that, when she was 
in a proper frame of mind, I would be glad to see her. The 
little creature came in, bathed in tears, threw her arms round 
my neck, and sobbing violently, put into my hands the fol- 
lowing verses : — 

Forgiven by my Saviour dear, 

For all the wrongs I've done, 
What other wish could I have here ? 

Alas there yet is one. 

I know my God has pardoned me, 
I know he loves me still ; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 173 

I wish forgiven I may be, 
By her I've used so ill, 

Good resolutions I have made, 

And thought I loved my Lord; 
But ah ! I trusted in myself, 

And broke my foolish word. 

But give me strength, oh Lord! to trust 

For help alone in thee; 
Thou knowest my inmost feelings best, 

Oh teach me to obey.' " 

We have spoken of the buoyancy of Margaret's feelings, 
and the vivid pleasure she received from external objects ; she 
entered, however, but little into the amusements of the few 
children with whom she associated, nor did she take much 
delight in their society ; she was conscious of a difference 
between them and herself, but scarce knew in what it con- 
sisted. Their sports seemed to divert for a while, but soon 
wearied her, and she would fly to a book, or seek the conver- 
sation of persons of maturer age and mind. Her highest 
pleasures were intellectual. She seemed to live in a world of 
her own creation, surrounded by the images of her own fancy. 
Her own childish amusements had originality and freshness. 
and called into action the mental powers, so as to render 
them interesting to persons of all ages. If at play with her 
little dog or kitten, she would carry on imaginary dialogues 
between them ; always ingenious, and sometimes even bril- 
liant. If her doll happened to be the plaything of the mo- 
ment, it was invested with a character exhibiting knowledge 
of history, and all the powers of memory which a child can 
be supposed to exercise. Whether it was Mary Queen of 
Scots, or her rival, Elizabeth, or the simple cottage maiden, 
each character was maintained with propriety. In teiling 



174 MAT?(5ARET DAVIDSON. 

stories (an amusement all children are fond of,) hers were 
always original, and of a. kind calculated to elevate the minds 
of the children present, giving them exalted views of truth, 
honor, and integrity ; and the sacrifice of all selfish feelings 
to the happiness of others was illustrated in the heroine of 
her story. 

This talent for extemporaneous story-telling increased with 
exercise, until she would carry on a narrative for hours to- 
gether : and in nothing was the precocity of her inventive 
powers more apparent than in the discrimination and individu- 
ality of her fictitious characters, the consistency with which 
they were sustained, the graphic force of her descriptions, 
the elevation of her sentiments, and the poetic beauty of her 
imagery. 

This early gift caused her to be sought by some of the 
neighbors, who would lead her unconsciously into an exertion 
of her powers. Nothing was done by her from vanity or a 
disposition to " show off," but she would become excited by 
their attention and the pleasure they seemed to derive from 
her narrations. When thus excited, a whole evening would 
be occupied by one of her stories; and when the servant 
came to take her home, she would observe, in the phraseology 
of the magazines, " the story to be continued in our next." 

Between the age of six and seven she entered upon a 
course of English grammar, geography, history, and rhetoric, 
still under the direction and superintendence of her mother ; 
but such was her ardor and application, that it was necessary 
to keep her in check, lest a too intense pursuit of knowledge 
should impair her delicate constitution. She was not required 
to commit her lessons to memory, but to give the substance 
of them in her own lanonac^e and to exnlain their nurnort : 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 175 

thus she learnt nothing by rote, but everything understand- 
ingly, and soon acquired a knowledge of the rudiments of 
English education. The morning lessons completed, the rest 
of the day was devoted to recreation ; occasionally sporting 
and gathering wild flowers on the banks of the Saranac ; 
though the extreme delicacy of her constitution prevented 
her taking as much exercise as her mother could have 
wished. 

It 1830 an English gentleman, who had been strongly 
interested and affected by the perusal of the biography and 
writings of Lucretia Davidson, visited Plattsburgh, in the 
course of a journey from Quebec to New York, to see the 
place where she was born and had been buried. While there, 
he sought an interview with Mrs. Davidson, and his appear- 
ance and deportment were such as at once to inspire re- 
spect and confidence. He had much to ask about the object 
of his literary pilgrimage, but his inquiries were managed 
with the most considerate delicacy. While he was thus con- 
versing with Mrs. Davidson, the little Margaret, then about 
seven years of age, came tripping into the room, with a book 
in one hand and a pencil in the other. He was charmed 
with her bright, intellectual countenance, but still more with 
finding that the volume in her hand was a copy of " Thomson's 
Seasons," in which she had been marking with a pencil the 
passages which most pleased her. He drew her to him ; his 
frank, winning manner soon banished her timidity; he en- 
gaged her in conversation, and found, to his astonishment, a 
counterpart of Lucretia Davidson before him. His visit was 
necessarily brief; but his manners, appearance, and conver- 
sation, and, above all, the extraordinary interest with which 
he had regarded her, sank deep in the affectionate heart of 



176 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the child, and inspired a friendship that remained one of her 
strongest attachments through the residue of her transient ex- 
istence. 

The delicate state of her health this summer rendered it ad- 
visable to take her to the Saratoga Springs, the waters of which 
appeared to have a beneficial effect. After remaining here 
some time, she accompanied her parents to New York. It was 
her first visit to the city, and of course fruitful of wonder and 
excitement ; a new world seemed to open before her ; new 
scenes, new friends, new occupations, new sources of instruc- 
tion and enjoyment ; her young heart was overflowing, and 
her head giddy with delight. To complete her happiness, she 
again met with her English friend, whom she greeted with as 
much eagerness and joy as if he had been a companion of 
her own age. He manifested the same interest in her that he 
had shown at Plattsburgh, and took great pleasure in accom- 
panying her to many of the exhibitions and places of intellec- 
tual gratification of the metropolis, and marking their effects 
upon her fresh, unhackneyed feelings and intelligent mind. 
In company with him she, for the first and only time in her 
life, visited the theatre. It was a scene of magic to her, or 
rather, as she said, like a "brilliant dream." She often re- 
curred to it with vivid recollection, and the effect of it upon 
her imagination was subsequently apparent in the dramatic 
nature of some of her writings. 

One of her greatest subjects of regret on leaving New York, 
was the parting with her intellectual English friend ; but she 
was consoled by his promising to pay Plattsburgh another 
visit, and to pass a few days there previous to his departure 
for England. Soon after returning to Plattsburgh, however, 
Mrs. Davidson received a letter from him saying that he was 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 177 

unexpectedly summoned home, and would have to defer his 
promised visit until his return to the United States. 

It was a severe disappointment to Margaret, who had con- 
ceived for him an enthusiastic friendship remarkable in such 
a child. His letter was accompanied by presents of books and 
various tasteful remembrances, but the sight of them only aug- 
ment her affliction. She wrapped them all carefully in paper, 
and treasured them up in a particular drawer, where they were 
daily visited, and many a tear shed over them. 

The excursions to Saratoga and New York had improved her 
health, and given a fresh impulse to her mind. She resumed 
her studies with great eagerness ; her spirits rose with mental 
exercise ; she soon was in one of her veins of intellectual ex- 
citement. She read, she wrote, she danced, she sang, and was 
for the time the happiest of the happy. In the freshness of 
early morning, and towards sunset, when the heat of the day 
was over, she would stroll on the banks of the Saranac, follow- 
ing its course to where it pours itself into the beautiful Bay of 
Cumberland in Lake Champlain. There the rich variety of 
scenery which bursts upon the eye; the islands, scattered, like 
so many gems, on the broad bosom of the lake ; the green 
mountains of Vermont beyond, clothed in the atmospherical 
charms of our magnificent climate ; all these would inspire a 
degree of poetic rapture in her mind, mingled with a sacred 
melancholy ; for these were scenes which had often awakened 
the enthusiasm of her deceased sister Lucretia. 

Her mother, in her memoranda, gives a picture of her in 
one of these excited moods. 

"After an evening's stroll along the river bank, we seated 
ourselves by a window to observe the effect of the full moon 
rising over the waters. A holy calm seemed to pervade all 



178 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

nature. With her head resting on my bosom, and her eyes 
fixed on the firmament, she pointed to a particularly bright 
star, and said, — 

'Behold that bright and sparkling star 
Which setteth as a queen afar: 
Over the blue and spangled heaven 
It sheds its glory in the even ! 

Our Jesus made that sparkling star 
Which shines and twinkles from afar. 
Oh! 'twas that bright and glorious gem 
Which shone o'er ancient Bethlehem! ' 

" The summer passed swiftly away," continues her mother, 
* yet her intellectual advances seemed to outstrip the wings of 
time. As the autumn approached, however, I could plainly 
perceive that her health was again declining. The chilly winds 
from the lake were too keen for her weak lungs. My own 
health, too, was failing ; it was determined, therefore, that we 

should pass the winter with my eldest daughter, Mrs. T , 

who resided in Canada, in the same latitude, it is true, but in 
an inland situation. This arrangement was very gratifying to 
Margaret ; and, had my health improved by the change, as her 
own did, she would have been perfectly happy. During this 
period she attended to a regular course of study, under my 
direction ; for, though confined wholly to my bed, and suffer- 
ing extremely from pain and debility, Heaven, in mercy, pre- 
served my mental faculties from the wreck that disease had 
made of my physical powers." The same plan as heretofore 
was pursued. Nothing was learned by rote, and the lessons 
were varied to prevent fatigue and distaste, though study was 
always with her a pleasing duty rather than an arduous task. 
After she' had studied her lessons by herself she would discuss 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 179 

them in conversation with her mother. Her reading was 
under the same guidance. " I selected her books," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " with much care, and to my surprise found that, 
notwithstanding her poetical temperament, she had a high 
relish for history, and that she would read with as much ap- 
parent interest an abstruse treatise that called forth the reflect- 
ing powers, as she did poetry or works of the imagination. In 
polite literature Addison was her favorite author, but Shaks- 
peare she dwelt upon with enthusiasm. She was restricted, 
however, to certain marked portions of this inimitable writer ; 
and having been told that it was not proper for her to read 
the whole, such was her innate delicacy and her sense of duty, 
that she never overstepped the prescribed boundaries." 

In the intervals of study she amused herself with drawing, 
for which she had a natural talent, and soon began to sketch 
with considerable skill. As her health had improved since her 
removal to Canada, she frequently partook of the favorite 
winter recreation of a drive in a traineau, or sleigh, in com- 
pany with her sister and her brother-in-law, and completely 
enveloped in furs and buffalo-robes ; and nothing put her in 
a finer flow of spirits, than thus skimming along, in bright 
January weather, on the sparkling snow, to the merry music 
of the jingling sleigh-bells. The winter passed away without 
any improvement in the health of Mrs. Davidson ; indeed she 
continued a helpless invalid, confined to her bed, for eighteen 
months ; during all which time little Margaret was her almost 
constant companion and attendant. 

" Her tender solicitude," writes Mrs. Davidson, " endeared 
her to me beyond any other earthly thing ; although under the 
roof of a beloved and affectionate daughter, and having con- 
stantly with me an experienced and judicious nurse, yet the 



180 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

soft and gentle voice of my little darling was more than medi- 
cine to my worn-out frame. If her delicate hand smoothed 
my pillow, it was soft to my aching temples, and her sweet 
smile would cheer me in the lowest depths of despondency. 
She would draw for me — read to me ; and often, when writ- 
ing at her little table, would surprise me by some tribute of 
love, which never failed to operate as a cordial to my heart* 
At a time when my life was despaired of, she wrote the fol- 
lowing lines while sitting at my bed : — 

" I '11 to thy arms in rapture fly, 
And wipe the tear that dims thine eye ; 
Thy pleasure will be my delight, 
Till thy pure spirit takes its flight. 

When left alone — when thou art gone, 

Yet still I will not feel alone : 

Thy spirit still will hover near, 

And guard thy orphan daughter dear! " 

In this trying moment, when Mrs. Davidson herself had 
given up all hope of recovery, one of the most touching sights 
was to see this affectionate and sensitive child tasking herself 
to achieve a likeness of her mother, that it might remain with 
her as a memento. " How often would she sit by my bed," 
says Mrs. Davidson, " striving to sketch features that had been 
vainly attempted by more than one finished artist ; and wher. 
she found that she had failed, and that the likeness could not 
be recognized, she would put her arms around my neck and 
weep, and say, ' Oh dear mamma, I shall lose you, and not 
even a sketch of your features will be left me ! and if I live to 
be a woman, perhaps I shall even forget how you looked ! ' 
This idea gave her great distress, sweet lamb ! I then little 
thought this bosom would have been her dying pillow ! " 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 181 

After being reduced to the very verge of the grave, Mrs. 
Davidson began slowly to recover; but a long time elapsed 
before she was restored to her usual degree of health. Mar- 
garet in the mean time increased in strength and stature ; she 
looked fragile and delicate, but she was always cheerful and 
buoyant. To relieve the monotony of her life, which had been 
passed too much in a sick chamber, and to preserve her spirits 
fresh and elastic, little excursions were devised for her about 
the country, to Missisque Bay, St. Johns, Alburgh, Champlain, 
&c. The following lines, addressed to her mother on one of 
these occasional separations, will serve as a specimen of her 
compositions in this the eighth year of her age, and of the affec- 
tionate current of her feelings : — 

" Farewell, dear mother ; for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile; 
May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow. 

May the Almighty. Father spread 
His sheltering wings above thy head; 
It is not long that we must part, 
Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 

' Remember, oh remember me, 
Unceasing is my love for thee; 
When death shall sever earthly ties, 
When thy loved form all senseless lies, 

* Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
And roam through wide eternity; 

Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
And count the brillant stars of even ! 

* Farewell, dear mother; for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile; 
May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow." 



182 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

In the month of January, 1833, while still in Canada, she 
was brought very low by an attack of scarlet fever, under which 
she lingered many w T eeks, but had so far recovered by the mid- 
dle of April as to take the air in a carriage. Her mother, too, 
having regained sufficient strength to travel, it was thought 
advisable, for both their healths, to try the effect of a journey 
to New York. They accordingly departed about the begin- 
ning of May, accompanied by a family party. Of this journey, 
and a sojourn of several months in New York, she kept a jour- 
nal, which evinces considerable habits of observation, but still 
more that kindling of the imagination which, in the poetic 
mind, gives to commonplace realities the witchery of romance. 
She was deeply interested by visits to the " School for the 
Blind," and the " Deaf and Dumb Asylum ; " and makes a 
minute of a visit of a very different nature — to Black Hawk 
and his fellow-chiefs, prisoners of war, who, by command of 
government, were taken about through various of our cities, 
that they might carry back to their brethren in the wilder- 
ness a cautionary idea of the overwhelming pow r er of the white 
man. 

" On the 25th June I saw and shook hands with the famous 
Black Hawk, the Indian chief, the enemy of our nation, who 
has massacred our patriots, murdered our women and helpless 
children ! Why is he treated with so much attention by those 
whom he has injured ? It cannot surely arise from benevo- 
lence. It must be policy. Be it what it may, I cannot under- 
stand it. His son, the Prophet, and others who accompanied 
him, interested me more than the chief himself. His son is no 
doubt a fine specimen of Indian beauty. He has a high brow r 
piercing black eyes, long black hair, w r hich hangs down his 
back, and, upon the whole, is w T ell suited to captivate an Indian 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 183 

maiden. The Prophet we found surveying himself in a look- 
ing-glass, undoubtedly wishing to show himself off to the best 
advantage in the fair assembly before him. The rest were 
dozing on a sofa, but they were awakened sufficiently to shake 
hands with us, and others who had the courage to approach so 
near them. I remember I dreamed of them the following 
night." 

During this visit to New York, she was the life and delight 
of the relatives with whom she resided, and they still retain 
a lively recollection of the intellectual nature of her sports 
among her youthful companions, and of the suprising aptness 
and fertile invention displayed by her in contriving new sources 
of amusement. She had a number of playmates, nearly of her 
own age, and one of her projects w r as to get up a dramatic en- 
tertainment for the gratification of themselves and their friends. 
The proposal was readily agreed to, provided she would write 
the play. This she readily undertook, and indeed devised 
and directed the whole arrangements, though, she had never 
been but once to a theatre, and that on her previous visit 
to New York. Her little companions were now all busily em- 
ployed, under her directions, preparing dresses and equipments ; 
robes with trains were fitted out for the female characters, and 
quantities of paper and tinsel were consumed in making caps. 
helmets, spears, and sandals. 

After four or five days had been spent in these prepara- 
tions, Margaret was called upon to produce the play. " Oh ! " 
she replied, " I have not written it yet." — " But how is this ! 
— Do you make the dresses first, and then write the play 
to suit them?" — "Oh!" replied she, gaily, "the writing of 
the play is the easiest part of the preparation ; it will be ready 
before the dresses." And, in fact, in two days she produced 



184 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

her drama, " The Tragedy of Alethia." It was not very volu- 
minous, to be sure, but it contained within it sufficient of high 
character and astounding and bloody incident to furnish out 
a drama of five times its size. A king and queen of Eng- 
land resolutely bent upon marrying their daughter, the Prin- 
cess Alethia, to the Duke of Ormoncl. The princess most 
perversely and dolorously in love with a mysterious cavalier, 
who figures at her father's court under the name of Sir Percy 
Lennox, but who, in private truth, is the Spanish king, Rod- 
rigo, thus obliged to maintain an incognito on account of 
certain hostilities between Spain and England. The odious 
nuptials of the princess with the Duke of Ormond proceed : 
she is led, a submissive victim, to the altar ; is on the point 
of pledging her irrevocable word ; when the priest throws 
off his sacred robe v discovers himself to be Rodrigo. and 
plunges a dagger into the bosom of the king. Alethia in- 
stantly plucks the dagger from her father's bosom, throws 
herself into Rodrigo's arms, and kills herself. Rodrigo flies 
to a cavern, renounces England, Spain, and his royal throne, 
and devotes himself to eternal remorse. The queen ends 
the play by a passionate apostrophe to the spirit of her 
daughter, and sinks dead on the floor. 

The little drama lies before us, a curious specimen of the 
prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no means 
more incongruous in its incidents than many current dramas 
by veteran and experienced playwrights. 

The parts were now distributed and soon learnt ; Margaret 
drew out a play-bill, in theatrical style, containing a list of 
the dramatis personae, and issued regular tickets of admision. 
The piece went off with universal applause ; Margaret figur- 
ing, in a long train, as the princess, and killing herself in a 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 185 

style that would not have disgraced an experienced stage 
heroine. 

In these, and similar amusements, her time passed happily 
in New York, for it was the study of the intelligent and 
amiable relatives, with whom she sojourned, to render her 
residence among them as agreeable and profitable as possible. 
Her visit, however, was protracted much beyond what was 
originally intended. As the summer advanced, the heat and 
restraint of the city became oppressive ; her heart yearned 
after her native home on the Saranac ; and the following 
lines, written at the time, express the state of her feelings : — 

HOME. 

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, 

To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair ; 

To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright, 

Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light. 

Again would I view the old mansion so dear, 

Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear; 

I would leave this great city so brilliant and gay, 

For a peep at my home on this fine summer day. 

I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret, 

But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet! 

There a sister reposes unconscious in death — 

'Twas there she first drew and there yielded her breath — 

A father I love is away from me now — 

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 

Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear, 

How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear ! 

Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call, 

But my own darling home, it is dearer than all. 

At length, late in the month of October, the travellers 
turned their faces homewards ; but it was not the " darling 
home " for which Margaret had been longing : her native 



186 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

cottage on the beautiful banks of the Saranac. The wintry 
winds from Lake Champlain had been pronounced too severe 
for her constitution, and the family residence had been re- 
luctantly changed to the village of Ballston. Margaret felt 
this change most deeply. We have already shown the tender 
as well as poetical associations that linked her heart to the 
beautiful home of her childhood ; a presentiment seemed to 
come over her mind that she would never see it more; a 
presentiment unfortunately prophetic. She was now accus- 
tomed to give prompt utterance to her emotions in rhyme, 
and the following lines, written at the time, remain a touch- 
ing record of her feelings : — 

MY NATIVE LAKE. 

Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, 
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam, 
Keflect each bending tree so light 
Upon thy bounding bosom bright 
Could I but see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

The little isles that deck thy breast, 

And calmly on thy bosom rest, 

How often, in my childish glee, 

I've sported round them, bright and free ! 

Could I but see thee once again, 

My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

How oft I've watch'd the fresh'ning shower 
Bending the summer tree and flower, 
And felt my little heart beat high 
As the bright rainbow graced the sky. 
Could I but see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

And shall I never see thee more, 

My native lake, my much-loved shore? 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 187 

And must I bid a long adieu, 
My dear, my infant home, to you ? 
Shall I not see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ? 

Still, though disappointed in not returning to the Saranac, 
she soon made herself contented at Ballston. She was at 
home, in the bosom of her own family, and reunited to her 
two youngest brothers, from whom she had long been sepa- 
rated. A thousand little plans were devised by her, and 
some few of them put in execution, for their mutual pleasure 
and improvement. One of the most characteristic of these 
was a "weekly paper," issued by her in manuscript, and 
entitled " The Juvenile Aspirant." All their domestic occupa- 
tions and amusements were of an intellectual kind. Their 
mornings were spent in study ; the evenings enlivened by 
conversation, or by the work of some favorite author, read 
aloud for the benefit of the family circle. 

As the powers of this excitable and imaginative little being 
developed themselves, Mrs. Davidson felt more and more 
conscious of the responsibility of undertaking to cultivate 
and direct them ; yet to whom could she confide her that 
would so well understand her character and constitution ? 
To place her in a boarding-school would subject her to in- 
creased excitement, caused by emulation, and her mind was 
already too excitable for her fragile frame. Her peculiar 
temperament required peculiar Culture ; it must neither be 
stimulated nor checked; and while her imagination was left 
to its free soarings, care must be taken to strengthen her judg- 
ment, improve her mind, establish her principles, and incul- 
cate habits of self-examination and self-control. All this, 
it was thought, might best be accomplished under a mother's 
eye; it was resolved, therefore, that her education should; 



188 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

as before, be conducted entirely at home. " Thus she contin- 
ued," to use her mothers words, "to live in the bosom of affec- 
tion, where every thought and feeling- was reciprocated. I 
strove to draw out the powers of her mind by conversation 
and familiar remarks upon subjects of daily study and reflec- 
tion, and taught her the necessity of bringing all her thoughts, 
desires, and feelings under the dominion of reason ; to under- 
stand the importance of self-control, when she found her 
inclinations were at war with its dictates. To fulfil all her 
duties from a conviction of right, because they were duties ; 
and to find her happiness in the consciousness of her own 
integrity, and the approbation of God. How delightful was 
the task of instructing a mind like hers ! She seized with 
avidity upon every new idea, for the instruction proceeded 
from lips of love. Often would she exclaim, ' Oh mamma ! 
how glad I am that you are not too ill to teach me ! Surely 
I am the happiest girl in the world ! ' She had read much 
for a child of little more than ten years of age. She was 
well versed in both ancient and modern history, (that is to 
say, in the courses- generally prescribed for the use of schools,) 
Blair, Kaimes, and Paley had formed part of her studies. 
She was familiar with most of the British poets. Her com- 
mand of the English language was remarkable, both in con- 
versation and writing. She had learned the rudiments of 
French, and was anxious to become perfect in the language ; 
but I had so neglected my duty in this respect after I left 
school, that I was not qualified to instruct her. A friend, how- 
ever, who understood French, called occasionally and gave 
her lessons for his own amusement ; she soon translated well, 
and such was her talent for the acquisition of languages, and 
such her desire to read everything in the original, that every 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. |R$ 

obstacle vanished before her perseverance. She made some 
advances in Latin, also, in company with her brother, who was 
attended by a private teacher ; and they were engaged upon 
the early books of Virgil, when her health again gave way, 
and she was confined to her room by severe illness. These 
frequent attacks upon a frame so delicate awakened all our 
fears. Her illness spread a gloom throughout our habitation, 
for fears, were entertained that it would end in a pulmonary 
consumption." After a confinement of two months, however ; 
she regained her usual, though at all times fragile, state of 
health. In the following spring, when she had just entered 
upon the eleventh year of her age,* intelligence arrived of 
the death of her sister, Mrs. T., who had been resident in 
Canada. The blow had been apprehended from previous 
accounts of her extreme illness, but it was a severe shock. 
She had looked up to this sister as to a second mother, and 
as to one who, from the precarious health of her natural 
parent, might be called upon to fulfil that tender office. She 
was one, also, calculated to inspire affection ; lovely in person, 
refined and intelligent in mind, still young in years ; and 
with all this, her only remaining sister ! In the following 
lines, poured out in the fulness of her grief, she touchingly 
alludes to the previous loss of her sister Lucretia, so often 
the subject of her poetic regrets, and of the consolation she 
had always felt in still having a sister to love and cherish 
her. 

ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER ANNA ELIZA. 

While weeping o'er our sister's tomb, 

And heaving many a heartfelt sigh, 
And while in youth's bewitching bloom, 

T thought not that thou too couldst die. 



190 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

When gazing on that little mound, 
Spread o'er with turf, and flowers, and mould, 

I thought not that thy lovely form 
Could be as motionless and cold. 

When her light, airy form was lost 
To fond affection's weeping eye ; 

I thought not we should mourn for thee, 
I thought not that thou too couldst die. 

Yes, sparkling gem ! when thou wert here, 
From death's encircling mantle free, 

Our mourning parents wiped each tear, 
And cried, " Why weep '? we still have thee." 

Each tender thought on thee they turn'd; 

Each hope of joy to thee was given; 
And, dwelling on each matchless charm, 

They half forgot the saint in heaven. 

But thou art gone, forever gone ! 

Sweet wanderer in a world of woe ! 
Now, unrestrain'd our grief must pour! 

Uncheck'd our mourning tears must flow. 

How oft I've press'd my glowing lip 
In rapture to thy snowy brow, 

And gazed upon that angel eye, 

Closed in death's chilling slumber now. 

While tottering on the verge of life, 

Thine every nerve with pain unstrung, 
That beaming eye was raised to heaven, — 
That heart to God for safety clung. 

And when the awful moment came, 
Replete with trembling hope and fear, 

Though anguish shook thy slender frame, 
Thy thoughts were in a brighter sphere 

The wreath of light, which round thee play'd. 
Bore thy pure spirit to the skies ; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 191 

With thee we lost our brightest gem, 
But heaven has gain'd a glorious prize. 

Oh may the bud of promise left, 

Follow the brilliant path she trod, 
And of her fostering care bereft, 

Still seek and find his mother's God. 

But he, the partner of her life, 
Who shared her joy and soothed her woe, 

How can I heal his broken heart ? 
How bid his sorrow cease to flow ? 

It 's only time those wounds can heal; 

Time, from whose piercing pangs alone, 
The poignancy of grief can steal, 

And hush the heart's convulsive moan. 

To parry the effect of this most afflicting blow, Margaret 
was sent on a visit to New York, where she passed a couple of 
months in the society of affectionate and intelligent friends, 
and returned home in June, recruited in health and spirits. 
The sight of her mother, however, though habituated to sor- 
row and suffering, yet bowed down by her recent bereavement, 
called forth her tenderest sympathies ; and we consider it as 
illustrating the progress of the intellect and the history of the 
heart of this most interesting child, to insert another effusion 
called forth by this domestic calamity : — 

TO MY MOTHER OPPRESSED WITH SORROW. 

Weep, oh my mother ! I will bid thee weep ! 
For grief like thine requires the aid of tears ; 
But oh, I would not see thy bosom thus 
Bow'd down to earth, with anguish so severe! 
I would not see thine ardent feelings crush' d, 
Deaden' d to all save sorrow's thrilling tone, 
Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head 
"3eneath the chilling blasts of stern iEolus ! 



1S2 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Oh I ha^e seen that brow with pleasure flush'd, 

The lightening smile around it brightly playing, 

And the dark eyelids trembling with delight — 

But now how chang'd ! — thy downcast eye is bent> 

With heavy, thoughtful glances, on the ground, 

And oh, how quickly starts the tear-drop there ! 

It is not age which dims its wonted fire, 

Or plants his lilies on thy pallid cheek, 

But sorrow, keenest, darkest, biting sorrow! 

When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief, 

And fondly pleads one cheering look to view, 

A sad, a faint sad smile one instant gleams 

Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined, 

Brooding o'er ruins of what once was fair; 

But like departing sunset, as it throws 

One farewell shadow o'er the sleeping earth, 

(So soon in sombre twilight to be wrapt,) 

Thus, thus it fades ! and sorrow more profound 

Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold, 

It scarcely might be called the mockery 

Of cheerful peace, but just before had been. 

Long years of suffering, brighten'd not by joy 

Death and disease, fell harbinger of woe, 

Must leave their impress on the human face, 

And dim the fire of youth, the glow of pride; 

But oh, my mother! mourn not thus for her, 

The rose, just blown, transplanted to its home, 

Nor weep that her angelic soul has found 

A resting-place with God. 

Oh let the eye of heaven-born faith disperse 

The dark'ning mists of earthly grief, and pierce 

The clouds which shadow dull mortality ! 

Gaze on the heaven of glory crown' d with light, 

Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brew, 

In the same voice which charm'd her father's halls, 

Chanting sweet anthems to her Maker's praise ; 

And watching with delight the gentle buds 

Which she had lived to mourn; watching thine own, 

My mother! the soft unfolding blossoms. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 195 

Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint, 

Departed to their Saviour; there to wait 

For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss ! 

The angel babes have found a second mother; 

But when thy soul shall pass from earth away, 

The little cherubs then shall cling to thee, 

And their sweet guardian welcome thee with joy, 

Protector of their helpless infancy, 

Who taught them how to reach that happy home. 

Oh think of this, and let one heartfelt smile 

Illume the face so long estranged from joy; 

But may it rest not on thy brow alone, 

But shed a cheering influence o'er thy heart, 

Too sweet to be forgotten ! Though thy loved 

And beautiful are fled from earth away, 

Still there are those who loved thee — who would live 

With thee alone — who weep or smile with thee. 

Think of thy noble sons, and think of her 

Who prays thee to be happy in the hope 

Of meeting those in heaven who loved thee here, 

And training those on earth, that they may live 

A band of saints with thee in Paradise. 

The regular studies of Margaret were now resumed, and her 
mother found, in attending to her instruction, a relief from the 
poignancy of her afflictions. Margaret always enjoyed the 
country, and in fine weather indulged in long rambles in the 
woods, accompanied by some friend, or attended by a faithful 
servant woman. When in the house, the versatility of her 
talents, her constitutional vivacity, and an aptness at coining 
occupation and amusement out of the most trifling incident, 
perpetually relieved the monotony of domestic life ; while the 
faint gleam of health that occasionally flitted across her cheek, 
beguiled the anxious forebodings that had been indulged con- 
cerning her. " A strong hope was rising in my heart," says 
her mother, " that our frail, delicate blossom would continue tc 



194 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

flourish, and that it was possible I might live to behold the per- 
fection of its beauty ! Alas ! how uncertain is every earthly 
prospect! Even then the canker was concealed with the 
bright bud, which was eventually to destroy its loveliness! 
About the last of December she was again seized with a liver 
complaint, which, by sympathy, affected her lungs, and again 
awakened all our fears. She was confined to her bed, and it 
was not until March that she was able to sit up and walk 
about her room. The confinement then became irksome, but 
her kind and skilful physician had declared that she must not 
be permitted to venture out until mild weather in April." 
During this fit of illness her mind had remained in an unusual 
state of inactivity ; but with the opening of spring and the 
faint return of health, it broke forth with a brilliancy and a 
restless excitability that astonished and alarmed. " In con- 
versation," says her mother, " her sallies of wit were dazzling. 
She composed and wrote incessantly, or rather would have 
done so, had I not interposed my authority to prevent this un- 
ceasing tax upon both her mental and physical strength. 
Fugitive pieces were produced every day, such as ' The Shun- 
amite,' < Belshazzar's Feast,' ' The Nature of Mind,' ' Boabdil 
el Chico,' &c. She seemed to exist only in the regions of 
poetry." We cannot help thinking that these moments of in- 
tense poetical exaltation sometimes approached to delirium, for 
we are told by her mother that " the image of her departed 
sister Lucretia mingled in all her aspirations ; the holy eleva- 
tion of Lucretia's character had taken deep hold of her 
imagination, and in her moments of enthusiasm she felt that 
she held close and intimate communion with her beatified 
spirit." 

This intense mental excitement continued after she was 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 195 

permitted to leave her room, and her application to her books 
and papers was so eager and almost impassioned, that it was 
found expedient again to send her on an excursion. A visit 
to some relatives, and a sojourn among the beautiful scenery 
of the Mohawk River, had a salutary effect ; but on returning 
home she was again attacked with alarming indisposition, which 
confined her to her bed. 

" The struggle between nature and disease," says her mother, 
" was for a time doubtful ; she was,' however, at length restored 
to us. With returning health, her mental labors were resumed. 
I reasoned and entreated, but at last became convinced that 
my only way was to let matters take their course. If re- 
strained in her favorite pursuits, she was unhappy. To acquire 
useful knowledge was a motive sufficient to induce her to 
surmount all obstacles. I could only select for her a course of 
calm and quiet reading, which, while it furnished real food for 
the mind, would compose rather than excite the imagination. 
She read much and wrote a great deal. As for myself, I lived 
in a state of constant anxiety lest these labors should pre- 
maturely destroy this delicate bud." 

In the autumn of 1835, Dr. Davidson made arrangements to 
remove his family to a rural residence near New York, pleas- 
antly situated on the banks of the Sound, or East River, as it 
is commonly called. The following extract of a letter from 
Margaret to Moss Kent, Esq.,* will show her anticipations and 
plans on this occasion : — 

* This gentleman was an early and valued friend of the Davidson family, 
and is honorably mentioned by Mr. Morse for the interest he took in the educa- 
tion of Lucretia. The notice of Mr. Morse, however, leaves it to be supposed 
that Mr. Kent's acquaintance with Dr. and Mrs. Davidson was brought about 
by his admiration of their daughter's talents, and commenced with overtures for 
her instruction. The following extract of a letter from Mrs. Davidson will place 
this matter in a proper light, and show that these offers on the part of Mr. Kent, 



196 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" September 20, 1835. 

" We shall soon leave Ballston for New York. We are tc 
reside in a beautiful spot upon the East River, near the Shot 
Tower, four miles from town, romantically called Ruremont. 
Will it not be delightful ? Reunited to father and brothers, 
we must, we will be happy ! We shall keep a horse and a 
little pleasure wagon, to transport us to and from town. But 
I intend my time shall be constantly employed in my studies, 
which I hope I shall continue to pursue at home. I wish 
(and mamma concurs in the opinion that it is best) to devote 
this winter to the study of the Latin and French languages, 
while music and dancing will unbend my mind after close ap- 
plication to those studies, and give me that recreation which 
mother deems requisite for me. If father can procure private 
teachers for me, I shall be saved the dreadful alternative of a 
boarding-school. Mother could never endure the thought of 
one for me, and my own aversion is equally strong. Oh ! 

and the partial acceptance of them by Dr. and Mrs. Davidson, were warranted 
by the terms of intimacy whicli before existed between them. " I had the pleas- 
ure," says Mrs. Davidson, " to know Mr. Kent before ray marriage, after which 
he frequently called at our house when visiting his sister, with whom I was on 
terms of intimacy. On one of these occasions he saw Lucretia. He had often 
seen her when a child, but she had changed much. Her uncommon personal 
beauty, graceful manners, and superior intellectual endowments made a strong 
impression on him. He conversed with her, and examined her on the different 
branches which she was studying, and pronounced her a good English scholar. 
He also found her well read, and possessing a fund of general information. He 
warmly expressed his admiration of her talents, and urged me to consent that 
he should adopt her as his daughter, and complete her education on the most 
liberal plan. I so far acceded to his proposition as to permit him to place her 
with Mrs. Willard, and assured him I would take his generous offer into consid- 
eration. Had she lived, we should have complied with his wishes, and Lucretia 
would have been the child of his adoption. The pure and disinterested friend- 
ship of this excellent man continued until the clay of his death. For Margaret 
he manifested the affection of a father, and the attachment was returned by her 
ivith all the warmth of a young and grateful heart. She always addressed him 
as her dear uncle Kent." 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 107 

my dear uncle, you must come and see us. Come soon and 
stay long. Try to be with us at Christmas. Mother's health 
is nol, as good as when you was here. I hope she will be bene- 
fited by a residence in her native city, — in the neighborhood 
of those friends she best loves. The state of her mind has an 
astonishing effect upon her health." 

The following letter to the same gentleman, is dated Octo- 
ber 18, 1835 : " We are now at Ruremont, and a more de- 
lightful place I never saw. The house is large, pleasant, and 
commodious, and the old-fashioned style of everything around 
it transports the mind to days long gone by, and my imagina- 
tion is constantly upon the rack to burden the past with scenes 
transacted on this very spot. In the rear of the mansion a 
lawn, spangled with beautiful flowers, and shaded by spread- 
ing trees, slopes gently down to the river side, where vessels 
of every description are constantly spreading their white sails 
to the wind. In front, a long shady avenue leads to the door, 
and a large extent of beautiful undulating ground is spread 
with fruit-trees of every description. In and about the house 
there are so many little nooks and by-places, that sometimes 
I fancy it has been the resort of smugglers ; and who knows 
but I shall yet find their hidden treasures somewhere ? Do 
come and see us, my dear uncle ; but you must come soon, if 
you would enjoy any of the beauties of the place. The trees 
have already doffed their robe of green, and assumed the red 
and yellow of autumn, and the paths are strewed with fallen 
leaves. But there is loveliness even in the decay of nature. 
But do, do come soon, or the branches will be leafless, and the 
cold winds will prevent the pleasant rambles we now enjoy. 
Dear mother has twice accompanied me a short distance about 
9' 



98 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the grounds, and indeed I think her health has improved since 
we removed to New York, though she is still very feeble. 
Her mind is much relieved, having her little family gathered 
once more around her. You well know how great an effect 
her spirits have upon her health. Oh ! if my dear mother is 
only in comfortable health, and you will come, I think I shall 
spend a delightful winter prosecuting my studies at home." 

" For a short time," writes Mrs. Davidson, " she seemed to lux- 
uriate upon the beauties of this lovely place. She selected her 
own room, and adjusted all her little tasteful ornaments. Her 
books and drawing implements were transported to this chosen 
spot. Still she hovered around me like my shadow. Mother's 
room Avas still her resting-place, mother's bosom her sanc- 
tuary. She sketched a plan for one or two poems which were 
never finished. But her enjoyment was soon interrupted. She 
was again attacked by her old enemy, and though her confine- 
ment to her room was of short duration, she did not get rid of 
the cough. A change now came over her mind. Hitherto she 
had always delighted in serious conversation on heaven ; the 
pure and elevated occupations of saints and angels in a future 
state had proved a delightful source of contemplation ; and 
she would become so animated that it seemed sometimes as 
if she would fly to realize her hopes and joys ! Now her young 
heart appeared to cling to life and its enjoyments, and more 
closely than I had ever known it. ' She was never ill.' — 
When asked the question, ' Margaret, how are you ? ' ' Well, 
quite well,' was her reply, when it was obvious to me, who 
A r atched her every look, that she had scarcely strength to sus- 
tain her w r eak frame. She saw herself the last daughter of 
her idolizing parents — the only sister of her devoted broth- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 199 

ers ! Life had acquired new charms, though she had always 
been a happy, light-hearted child." 

The following lines, written about this time, show the elas- 
ticity of her spirit and the bounding vivacity of her imagina- 
tion, that seemed to escape, as in a dream, from the frail tene- 
ment of clay in which they were encased : — 

STANZAS. 

Oh, for the pinions of a bird, 

To bear me far away, 
Where songs of other lands are heard, 

And other waters play ! 

For some aerial car, to fly 

On through the realms of light, 
To regions rife with poesy, 

And teeming with delight. 

O'er many a wild and classic stream 

In ecstasy I 'd bend, 
And hail each ivy-covered tower 

As though it were a friend. 

O'er piles where many a wintry blast 

Is swept in mournful tones, 
And fraught with scenes long glided past, 

It shrieks, and sighs, and moans. 

Through many a shadowy grove, and rouno 

Full many a cloister' d hall, 
And corridors, where every step 

With echoing peal doth fall. 

Enchanted with the dreariness, 

And awe-struck with the gloom, 
I would wander, like a spectre, 

'Mid the regions of the tomb. 

And Memory her enchanting veil 
Around my soul should twine; 



SKK) MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And Superstition, -wildly pale, 
Should woo me to her shrine ; 

I 'd cherish still her witching gloom, 
Half shrinking in my dread, 

But, powerless to dissolve the spell, 
Pursue her fearful tread. 

Oh, what unmingling pleasure then 
My youthful heart would feel, 

As o'er its thrilling chords each thought 
Of former days would steal, — 

Of centuries in oblivion wrapt, 
Of forms which long were cold, 

And all of terror, all of woe, 
That history's page has told. 

How fondly in my bosom 
Would its monarch, Fancy, reign, 

And spurn earth's meaner offices 
With glorious disdain. 

Amid the scenes of past delight, 

Or misery, I 'd roam : 
Where ruthless tyrants swayed in might,— 

Where princes found a home ; 

Where heroes have enwreathed their brows 

With chivalric renown ; 
W\»ere Beauty's hand, as Valor's meed, 

Hath twined the laurel crown. 

I 'd stand where proudest kings have stood, 
Or kneel where slaves have knelt, 

Till wrapt in magic solitude, 
I feel what they have felt. 

Oh, for the pinions of a bird, 

To waft me far away, 
Where songs of other lands are heard 

And other waters play ! 



MAKGATCET DAVIDSON. 201 

About thit, time Mrs. Davidson received a letter from the 
English gentleman for whom Margaret, when quite a child, 
had conceived such a friendship, her dear elder brother, as she 
used to call him. The letter bore testimony to his undi- 
minished regard. He was in good health ; married to a very 
estimable and lovely woman ; was the father of a fine little 
girl, and was at Havana with his family, where he kindly 
entreated Mrs. Davidson and Margaret to join them, being 
sure that a winter passed in that mild climate would have the 
happiest effect upon their healths. His doors, his heart, he 
added, were open to receive them, and his amiable consort 
impatient to bid them welcome. " Margaret," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " was overcome by the perusal of this letter. She 
laughed and wept alternately. One moment urged me to 
go ; ' she was herself well, but she was sure it would cure me ; ' 
the next moment felt as though she could not leave the friends 
to whom she had so recently been reunited. Oh, had I gone 
at that time, perhaps my child might still have lived to bless 
me ! " 

During the first weeks of Margaret's residence at Rure- 
mont, the character and situation of the place seized power- 
fully upon her imagination. " The curious structure of -this 
old-fashioned house/' says Mrs. Davidson, "its picturesque 
appearance, the varied and beautiful grounds which sur- 
rounded it, called up a thousand poetic images and romantic 
ideas. A long gallery, a winding staircase, a dark, narrow 
passage, a trap-door, large apartments, with massive doors 
and heavy iron bars and bolts, all set her mind teeming with 
recollections of what she had read and imagined of old castles. 
banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in per- 
fect ecstasy, peopling every part with images of her own imagi- 



202 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

nation, and fancying it the scene of some foregone event of 
dark and thrilling interest." There was, in fact, some pal- 
pable material for all this spinning and weaving of the fancy. 
The writer of this memoir visited Ruremont at the time it 
was occupied by the Davidson family. It was a spacious, 
and somewhat crazy and poetical-looking mansion, with large 
waste apartments. The grounds were rather wild and over- 
grown, but so much the more picturesque. It stood on the 
banks of the Sound, the waters of which rushed, with whirl- 
ing and impetuous tides, below, hurrying on to the danger- 
ous strait of Hell Gate. Nor was this neighborhood without 
its legendary tales. These wild and lonely shores had, in 
former times, been the resort of smugglers and pirates. Hard 
by this very place stood the country retreat of Ready Money 
Prevost, of dubious and smuggling memory, with his haunted 
tomb, in which he was said to conceal his contraband riches ; 
and scarce a secret spot about these shores but had some 
tradition connected with it of Kidd the pirate and his buried 
treasures. All these circumstances were enough to breed 
thick-coming fancies in so imaginative a brain, and the re- 
sult was a drama in six acts, entitled " The Smuggler," 
the scene of which was laid at Ruremont in the old time of 
the Province. The play was written with great rapidity, and, 
considering she was little more than twelve years of age, and 
had never visited a theatre but once in her life, evinced great 
aptness and dramatic talent. It was to form a domestic enter- 
tainment for Christmas holidays ; the spacious back-parlor 
was to be fitted up for the theatre. In planning and making 
arrangements for the performance, she seemed perfectly 
jiappy, and her step resumed its wonted elasticity, though 
her anxious mother often detected a suppressed cough and 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 203 

remarked a hectic flush upon her cheek. "We now found," 
says Mrs. Davidson, " that private teachers were not to be 
procured at Ruremont, and I feared to have her enter upon 
a course of study which had been talked of before we came 
to this place. I thought she was too feeble for close mental 
application, while she was striving, by the energies of her 
mind and bodily exertion, (which only increased the morbid 
excitement of her system,) to overcome disease, that she 
feared was about to fasten itself upon her. She was the more 
anxious, therefore, to enter upon her studies ; and when she 
saw solicitude in my countenance and manner, she would fix 
her sweet sad eyes upon my face, as if she would read my 
very soul, yet dreaded to know what she might find written 
there. I knew and could understand her feelings ; she also 
understood mine ; and there seemed to be a tacit compact 
between us that this subject, at present, was forbidden ground. 
Her father and brothers were lulled into security by her 
cheerful manner and constant assertion that she was well, 
and considered her cough the effect of recent cold. My 
opinion to the contrary was regarded as the result of extreme 
maternal anxiety." 

She accordingly went to town three times a week, to take 
lessons in French, music, and dancing. Pier progress in 
French was rapid, and the correctness and elegance of her 
translations surprised her teachers. Her friends in the city, 
seeing her look so well and appear so sprightly, encouraged 
her to believe that air and exercise would prove more bene- 
ficial than confinement to the house. She went to town in 
the morning and returned in the evening in an open carriage, 
with her father and one of her elder brothers, each of whom 
was confined to his respective office until night. In this way 



204 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

she was exposed to the rigors of an unusually cold season , 
yet she heeded them not, but returned home full of anima- 
tion to join her little brothers in preparations for their holiday 
fete. Their anticipations of a joyous Christmas were doomed 
to sad disappointment. As the time approached, two of her 
brothers were taken ill. One Of these, a beautiful boy about 
nine years of age, had been the favorite companion of her 
recreations, and she had taken great interest in his mental 
improvement. " Towards the close of 1835," says her mother, 
" he began to droop ; his cheek grew pale, his step languid, 
and his bright eye heavy. Instead of rolling the hoop, and 
bounding across the lawn to meet his sister on her return 
from the city, he drooped by the side of his feeble mother, 
and could not bear to be parted from her ; at length he was 
taken to his bed, and, after lingering four months, he died. 
This was Margaret's first acquaintance with death. She wit- 
nessed his gradual decay almost unconsciously, but still per- 
suaded herself ' He will, he must get well ! ' She saw her 
sweet little playfellow reclining upon my bosom during his 
last agonies ; she witnessed the bright glow which flashed 
upon his long-faded cheek; she beheld the unearthly light 
of his beautiful eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine and 
exclaimed, ' Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come ! ' 
Oh ! it was indeed an hour of anguish never to be forgotten. 
Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her rife* 
The sudden change from life and animation to the still uncon- 
sciousness of death, for the time almost paralyzed her. She 
shed no tear, but stood like a statue upon the scene of death. 
But when her eldest brother tenderly led her from the room 
her tears gushed forth — it was near midnight, and the first 
thing that aroused her to a sense of what was going on around 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. WO 

her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a conviction that 
it was her province to console me." 

We subjoin a record, from her own pen, of her feelings on 
this lamentable occasion : — 

ON THE CORPSE OF MY LITTLE BROTHER KENT. 

Beauteous form of soulless clay ' 

Image of what once was life ! 
Hushed is thy pulse's feeble play, 

And ceased the pangs of mortal strife. 

Oh ! I have heard thy dying groan, 

Have seen thy last of earthly pain ; 
And while I weep that thou art gone, 

I cannot wish thee here again. 

For ah ! the calm and peaceful smile 

Upon that clay-cold brow of thine,' 
Speaks of a spirit freed from sin, — 

A spirit joyful and divine. 

But thou art gone ! and this cold clay 

Is all that now remains of thee ; 
For thy freed soul hath winged its way 

To blessed immortality. 

That dying smile, that dying groan, 

I never, never can forget, 
Till Death's cold hand hath clasped my own, — • 

His impress on my brow has set. 

Those low, and sweet, and plaintive tones, 
Which o'er my heart like music swept, 

And the deep, deathlike, chilling moans 
Which from thy heaving bosom crept. 

Oh ! thou wert beautiful and fair, 

Our loveliest and our dearest one ! 
No more thy pains or joys we share, 

No more — my brother, thou art gone. 



i06 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Thou *rt gone ! What agony, what woe 

In that brief sentence is expressed ! 
Oh, that the burning tears could flow, 

And draw this mountain from my breast! 

The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as she 
saw her bright and beautiful but perishable offspring thus, 
one by one, snatched away from her. " My own weak frame," 
says she, " was unable longer to sustain the effects of long 
watching and deep grief. I had not only lost my lovely boy, 
but I felt a strong conviction that I must soon resign my 
Margaret ; or rather, that she would soon follow me to a 
premature grave. Although she still persisted in the belief 
that she was well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, (so 
often mistaken for the bloom of health,) the hurried beating 
of the heart, and the drenching night-perspirations confirmed 
me in this belief, and I sank under this accumulated load of 
affliction. For three weeks I hovered upon the borders of 
the grave ; and when I arose from this bed of pain, so feeble 
that I could not sustain my own weight, it was to witness the 
rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by exertions 
to suppress a cough. Oh, it was agony to see her thus ! I 
was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, lest 
the agitation of her mind should produce fatal consequences. 
As I seated myself by her, she raised her speaking eyes to 
mine with a mournful, inquiring gaze ; and as she read the 
anguish which I could not conceal, she turned away with a 
look of despair. She spoke not a word, but silence, still, death- 
like silence, pervaded the apartment." The best of medical 
aid was called in, but the physicians gave no hope ; they con- 
sidered it a deep-seated case of pulmonary consumption. All 
that could be done was to alleviate the symptoms, and pro* 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 207 

tract life as long as possible, by lessening the excitement of 
the system. When Mrs. Davidson returned to the bedside, 
after an interview with the physicians, she was regarded with 
an anxious, searching look by the lovely little sufferer, but 
not a question was made. Margaret seemed fearful of receiv- 
ing a discouraging reply, and " lay, all pale and still, (except 
when agitated by the cough,) striving to calm the tumult of 
her thoughts," while her mother seated herself by her pillow, 
trembling with weakness and sorrow. Long and anxious 
were the days and nights spent in watching over her. Every 
sudden movement or emotion excited the hemorrhage. " Not 
a murmur escaped her lips," says her mother, " during her 
protracted sufferings. 'How are you, love? how have you 
rested during the night ? ' ' Well, dear mamma ; I have slept 
sweetly.' I have been night after night beside her restless 
couch, wiped the cold dew from her brow, and kissed her 
faded cheek in all the agony of grief, while she unconsciously 
slept on ; or if she did awake, her calm sweet smile, which 
seemed to emanate from heaven, has, spite of my reason, 
lighted my heart with hope. Except when very ill, she was ever 
a bright dreamer. Her visions were usually of an unearthly 
cast, — about heaven and angels. She was wandering among 
the stars ; her sainted sisters were her pioneers ; her cherub 
brother walked hand-in-hand with her through the gardens 
of Paradise ! I was always an early riser ; but after Margaret 
began to decline I never disturbed her until time to rise for 
breakfast, a season of social intercourse in which she de- 
lighted to unite, and from which she was never willing to be 
absent. Often when I have spoken to her she would exclaim, 
' Mother, you have disturbed the brightest visions that ever 
mortal was blessed with ! I was in the midst of such scenes 



208 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of delight! Cannot I have time to finish my dream?' And 
when I told her how long it was until breakfast, ' It will do, 
she would say, and again lose herself in her bright imagin- 
ings ; for I considered these as moments of inspiration rather 
than sleep. She told me it was not sleep. I never knew but 
one, except Margaret, who enjoyed this delightful and mys- 
terious source of happiness ; that one was her departed sister 
Lucretia. When awaking from these reveries, an almost 
ethereal light played about her eye, which seemed to irradi- 
ate her whole face. A holy calm pervaded her manner, and 
in truth she looked more like an angel who had been com- 
muning with kindred spirits in the world of light, than any- 
thing of a grosser nature." 

How truly does this correspond with Milton's exquisite de- 
scription of the heavenly influences that minister to virgin 
innocence : — 

" A thousand liv'ried angels lackey her, 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt; 
And in clear dream and solemn vision, 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear; 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shane. 
The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
And turn it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
Till all be made immortal." 

Of the images and speculations that floated in her mind 
during these half-dreams, half-reveries, we may form an idea 
from the following lines, written on one occasion after what her 
mother used to term her " descent into the world of reality " : — • 

THE JOYS OF HEAVEN. 
Oh, who can tell the joy and peace 
Which souls redeemed shall know, 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 209 

When all their earthly sorrows cease, 

Their pride, and pain, and woe! 
Who may describe the matchless lore 
Which reigneth with the saints above? 

What earthly tongue can ever tell 

The pure, unclouded joy 
Which in each gentle soul doth swell, 

Unmingled with alloy, 
As, bending to the Lord Most High, 
They sound his praises through the sky? 

Through the high regions of the air, 

On angel wings they glide, 
And gaze in wondering silence there 

On scenes to us denied ; 
Their minds expanding every hour, 
And opening like the summer flower. 

Though not like them to fade away, 

To die, and bloom no more ; 
Beyond the reach of fell decay 

They stand in light and power; 
But pure, eternal, free from care, 
They join in endless praises there! 

When first they leave this world of woe 

For fair, immortal scenes of light, 
Angels attend them from below, 

And upward wing their joyful flight; 
Where, fired with heavenly rapture's flame, 
They raise on high Jehovah's name. 

O'er the broad arch of heaven it peals, 

While shouts of praise unnumbered flow; 
The full, sweet notes sublimely swell, 

And prostrate angels humbly bow ; 
Each harp is tuned to joy above, 
Its theme, a Saviour's matchless love. 

The dulcet voice, which here below 
Charmed with delight each listening ear, 



210 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Mixed with no lingering tone of woe, 

Swelling harmonious, soft, and clear, 
Will sweetly fill the courts above, 
In strains of heavenly peace and love. 

The brilliant genius, which on earth 

Is struggling with disease and pain, 
Will there unfold in power and light, 

Naught its bright current to restrain ; 
And as each brilliant day rolls on, 
'T will find some grace till then unknowi*. 

And as the countless years flit by, 

Their minds progressing still, 
The more they know, these saints on high 

Praise more His sovereign will ; 
No breath from sorrow's whirlwind blast 
Around their footsteps cast. 

From their high throne they gaze abroad 

On vast creation's wondrous plan, 
And own the power, the might of God, 

In each resplendent work they scan ; 
Though sun and moon to naught return, 
Like stars these souls redeemed shall burn. 

Oh ! who could wish to stay below, 

If sure of such a home as this, 
Where streams of love serenely flow, 

And every heart is filled with bliss ? 
They praise, and worship, and adore 
The Lord of heaven for evermore. 

During this dangerous illness she became acquainted with 
Miss Sedgwick. The first visit of that most excellent and 
justly distinguished person, was when Margaret was in a state 
of extreme debility. It laid the foundation of an attachment 
on the part of the latter which continued until her death. 
The visit was repeated; a correspondence afterwards took 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 211 

place, and the friendship of Miss Sedgwick became to the 
little enthusiast a source of the worthiest pride and purest 
enjoyment throughout the remainder of her brief existence. 

At length the violence of her malady gave way to skilful 
remedies and the most tender and unremitting assiduity. 
When enabled to leave her chamber, she rallied her spirits, 
made great exertions to be cheerful, and strove to persuade 
herself that all might yet be well with her. Even her parents, 
with that singular self-delusion inseparable from this cruelly 
flattering malady, began to indulge a trembling hope that she 
might still be spared to them. 

In the month of July, her health being sufficiently reestab- 
lished to bear the fatigues of travelling, she was taken by her 
mother and eldest brother on a tour to Dutchess County and 
the western part of New York. On leaving home, she wrote 
the following lines, expressive of the feelings called forth by 
the events of the few preceding months, and of a foreboding 
that she should never return : — 

FAREWELL TO RUREMONT. 

Oh! sadly I gaze on this beautiful landscape, 
And silent and slow do the big tear-drops swell; 

And I haste to my task, while the deep sigh is breaking, 
To bid thee, sweet Ruremont, a lasting farewell. 

Oh! soft are the breezes which play round thy valley, 
And warm are the sunbeams which gild thee with light; 

All clear and serenely the deep waves are rolling, 
The sky in its radiance is dazzlingly bright. 

Oh ! gayly the birds 'mid thy dark vines are sporting, 
And, heaven-taught, pouring their gladness in song,- 

While the rose and the lily their fair heads are bending 
To hear the soft anthems float gently along. 



212 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Full many an hour have I bent o'er thy waters, 
Or watched the light clouds with a joy-beaming eye, 

Till, delighted, I longed for eagle's swift pinions, 
To pierce the full depths of that beautiful sky. 

Though wild were the fancies which dwelt in my bosom, 
Though endless the visions which swept o'er my soul, 

Indulging those dreams was my dearest enjoyment, — 
Enjoyment unmingled, unchained by control! 

But each garden of earth has a something of sorrow, 
A thorn in its rose, or a blight in its breeze; 

Though blooming as Eden, a shadow hangs o'er thee, 
The spirit of darkness, of pain, of disease ! 

Yes, Ruremont ! thy brow, in its loveliness decked, 
Is entwined with a fatal but beautiful wreath ; 

For thy green leaves have shrunk at the mourner's cold touch, 
And thy pale flowers have wept in the presence of death. 

Yon violets, which bloom in their delicate freshness, 
"Were strewed o'er the grave of our fairest and best; 

Yon roses, which charm by their richness and fragrance, 
Have withered and died on his icj-cold breast. 

The soft voice of Spring had just breathed o'er the valley, 
The sweet birds just carrolled their song in her bower, 

When the angel of Death in his terror swept o'er us, 
And placed in his bosom our fragile young flower. 

Thus, Ruremont, we mourn not thy beauties alone, 
Thy flowers in their freshness, thy stream in its pride ; 

But we leave the loved scene of our mourning and tears, — 
We leave the dear spot where our cherished one died. 

The mantle of beauty thrown gracefully o'er thee 
Must touch a soft chord in each delicate heart ; 

But the tie is more sacred which bids us deplore thee, — 
Endeared by affliction, 't is harder to part. 

The scene of enjoyment is ever most lovely, 
Where blissful younjj spirits dance mirthful and glad ; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 2.13 

But when Sorrow has mingled her tears with our pleasure, 
Our love is more tender, our parting more sad. 

How mild is the wing of this delicate zephyr, 

Which fans in its coolness my feverish brow ! 
But that light wing is laden with breezes that wither, 

And check the warm current of life in its flow. 

Why blight such an Eden, spirit of terror! 

Which sweepest thy thousands each hour to the tomb ? 
Why, why shouldst thou roam o'er this beautiful valley, 

And mingle thy breath with the rose's perfume ■? 

The sun rises bright o'er the clear dancing waters, 

And tinges with gold every light waving tree, 
And the young birds are singing their welcome to morning — 

Alas ! they will sing it no longer for me ! 

The young buds of Summer their soft eyes are opening, 
The wild flowers are bending the pure ripples o'er; 

But I bid them farewell, and my heart is nigh breaking 
To think I shall see them and tend them no more. 

I mark yonder path, where so often I 've wandered, 
Yon moss-covered rock, with its sheltering tree, 

And a sigh of deep sadness bursts forth to remember 
That no more its soft verdure shall blossom for me. 

How often my thoughts, to these loved scenes returning, 
Shall brood o'er the past with its joy and its pain; 

Till waking at last from the long, pleasing slumber, 
I sigh to behold thee, thus blooming, again. 

The little party was absent on its western tour about two 
months. " Margaret," says her mother, " appeared to enjoy 
the scenery, and everything during the journey interested her ; 
but there was a sadness in her countenance, a pensiveness in 
her manner, unless excited by external circumstances, which 
deeply affected me. She watched every variation in my coun- 
tenance ; marked every little attention directed to herself, — 



214 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

such as an alteration in her diet, dress, exposure to the changes 
of weather, — yet still discovered an unwillingness to speak of 
her declining health, and labored to conceal every unfavorable 
symptom or change for the worse. This, of course, imposed 
upon me the most painful restraint. How heart-breaking to 
find that she considered my tongue as the herald of mournful 
tidings, and my face as the mirror of evil to come ! How true 
that self-deception seems to be an almost invariable symptom 
attending this dreadful complaint ! Margaret, all unconscious 
of the rapid strides of the destroyer, taught herself to believe 
that the alarming symptoms of her case existed only in the 
imagination of her too anxious mother. Yet knowing my ex- 
perience in these matters, she still doubted and trembled and 
feared to ask, lest a confirmation of her vague apprehensions 
should be the result. She avoided the slightest allusion to the 
subject of her disease in any way ; and in the morbid excite- 
ment of her mind it appeared to her almost like accusing her 
of something wrong to say she was not well." 

The following letter was written by her to Miss Sedgwick, 
after her arrival in Dutchess County : — 

Lithgow, Dutchess County. 
Happy as I am, my dear madam, in the privilege of writ- 
ing to you, I cannot permit another day to pass ere I inform you 
of our safe arrival at one of the most lovely spots in this beau- 
tiful and healthy country. Our passage up the river was 
rather tedious, being debarred the pleasure of remaining upon 
deck, but this privation was counterbalanced by the pleasure 
of a few moments' conversation with dear brother, who was 
permitted to meet us when the boat stopped at West Point. 
Arrived at Poughkeepsie, brother M. procured a private car- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 215 

riage, which was to convey us to the end of our journey, a 
distance of twenty miles. The drive was delightful ! The 
scenerv ever chanoins:, ever beautiful ! We arrived at Lith- 
gow without much fatigue, where a hearty welcome, that 
sweetest of cordials, was awaiting us. Oh, it is a lovely spot ! 
I thought Ruremont the perfection of beauty ! but here I find 
the flowers as blooming, the birds as gay, the air as sweet, and 
the prospect far more varied and extensive. 'T is true we have 
lost the beautiful East River, with its crowd of vessels sweep- 
ing gracefully along; but here are hills crowned with the 
richest foliage, valleys sprinkled with flowers, and watered with 
winding rivulets; and here, what we prize more than all, a 
mild, salubrious air, which seems, in the words of the divine 
poet, 'to bear healing in its wings/ Dear mother bore the 
fatigue of our journey better than we anticipated ; and al- 
though I do not think she is permanently better, she certainly 
breathes more freely, and seems altogether more comfortable, 
than when in the city. Oh! how sincerely I hope that a 
change of air and scene may raise her spirits and renovate her 
strength. She is now in the midst of friends whom she has 
known and loved for many years, and surrounded by scenes 
connected with many of her earliest remembrances. Farewell, 
my dear madam! Please give my love to your dear little 
niece ; and should you have the leisure and inclination to an- 
swer this, believe me your letter will be a source of much 
gratification to your 

Highly obliged little friend, 

M. M. Davidson. 

Miss Catherine Sedgwick. 
August, 1836. 

The travellers returned to Ruremont in September. The 



216 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

tour had been of service to Margaret, and she endeavored to 
persuade herself that she was quite well. If asked about her 
health, her reply was, that " If her friends did not tell her she 
was ill, she should not, from her own feelings, suspect it." 
That she was, notwithstanding, dubious on this subject, was 
evident from her avoiding to speak about it, and from the un- 
easiness she manifested when it was alluded to. It was still 
more evident from the change that took place in her habits 
and pursuits ; she tacitly adopted the course of conduct that 
had repeatedly and anxiously, but too often vainly, been urged 
by her mother, as calculated to allay the morbid irritability of 
her system. She gave up her studies, rarely indulged in writ- 
ing or drawing, and contented herself with light reading, with 
playing a few simple airs on the piano, and with any other 
trivial mode of passing away the time. The want of her favor- 
ite occupations, however, soon made the hours move heavily 
with her. Above all things, she missed the exacting exercise of 
the pen, against which she had been especially warned. Her 
mother observed the listlessness and melancholy that were 
stealing over her, and hoped a change of scene might banish 
them. The airs from the river, too, had been pronounced 
unfavorable to her health ; the family, therefore, removed to 
town. The change of residence, however, did not produce the 
desired effect. She became more and more dissatisfied with 
herself, and with the life of idleness, as she considered it, that 
she was leading ; but still she had resolved to give the pre- 
scribed system a thorough trial. A new source of solicitude was 
now awakened in the bosom of her anxious mother, who read 
in her mournfully quiet manner and submissive silence the pain- 
ful effects of compliance with her advice. There was not a 
murmur, however, from the lips of Margaret, to give rise to 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 217 

this solicitude ; on the contrary, whenever she caught her 
mother's eye fixed anxiously and inquiringly on her, she would 
turn away and assume an air of cheerfulness. 

Six months had passed in this inactive manner. " She was 
seated one day by my side," says Mrs. Davidson, " weary and 
restless, and scarcely knowing what to do with herself, when, 
marking the traces of grief upon my face, she threw her arms 
about my neck, and, kissing me, exclaimed, 'My dear, dear 
mother!' 'What is it affects you now, my child?' 'Oh, 
I know you are longing for something from my pen ! ' I saw 
the secret craving of the spirit that gave rise to the suggestion. 
' I do, indeed, my dear, delight in the effusions from your pen, 
but the exertion will injure you.' ' Mamma, I must write I I 
can hold out no longer ! I will return to my pen, my pencil, 
and my books, and shall again be happy ! ' I pressed her to 
my bosom, and cautioned her to remember she was feeble. 
' Mother,' exclaimed she, ' I am well ! I wish you were only 
as well as I am ! ' " 

The heart of the mother was not proof against these appeals ; 
indeed she had almost as much need of self-denial on this sub- 
ject as her child, so much did she delight in these early blos- 
somings of her talent. Margaret was again left to her own 
impulses. All the frivolous expedients for what is usually 
termed killing time were discarded by her with contempt ; her 
studies were resumed ; in the sacred writings and in the pages 
of history she sought fitting aliment for her mind, half fam- 
ished by its long abstinence ; her poetical vein again burst 
forth, and the following lines, written at the time, show the 
excitement and elevation of her feelings : — 



218 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



EARTH. 



Earth! thou hast naught to satisfy 

The cravings of immortal mind ! 
Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 

The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Impatient of its long delay, 
The pinioned spirit fain would roam, 

And leave this crumbling house of clay, 
To seek, above, its own bright home ! 

The spirit, — 't is a spark of light 
Struck from our God's eternal throne, 

Which pierces through these clouds of night, 
And longs to shine where once it shone ! 

Earth ! there will come an awful day, 
When thou shalt crumble into naught ; 

When thou shalt melt beneath that ray 
From whence thy splendors first were caught 

Quenched in the glories of its God, 
Ton burning lamp shall then expire; 

And flames, from heaven's own altar sent, 
Shall light the great funereal pyre. 

Yes, thou must die ! and yon pure depths 
Back from thy darkened brow shall roll; 

But never can the tyrant Death 
Arrest this feeble, trusting soul. 

When that great Voice, which formed thee first, 
Shall tell, surrounding world, thy doom, 

Then the pure soul, enchained by thee, 
Shall rise triumphant o'er thy tomb. 

Then on, still on, the unfettered mind 
Through realms of endless space shall fly; 

No earth to dim, no chain to bind, 
Too pure to sin, too great to die. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 219 

Earth ! thou hast naught to satisfy 

The cravings of immortal mind ! 
Earth ! thou hast nothing pure or high, 

The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Yet is this never-dying ray 

Caught in thy cold, delusive snares, 
• Cased in a cell of mouldering clay, 

And bowed by woes, and pain, and cares! 

Oh ! how mysterious is the bond 

Which blends the earthly with the pure, 
And mingles that which death may blight 

With that which ever must endure ! 

Arise, my soul, from all below, 

And gaze upon thy destined home, 
The heaven of heavens, the throne of God, 

Where sin and care can never come. 

Prepare thee for a state of bliss, 

Unclouded by this mortal veil, 
Where thou shalt see thy Maker's face, 

And dews from heaven's own air inhale. 

How sadly do the sins of earth 

Deface thy purity and light, 
That thus, while gazing at thyself, 

Thou shrink'st in horror at the sight. 

Compound of weakness and of strength, 

Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power ! 
Loftier than earth, or air, or sea, 

Yet meaner than the lowliest flower! 

Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still 

To earth, by many a purer tie ! 
Longing to breathe a tender air, 

Yet fearing, trembling thus to die ! 

She was soon all cheerfulness and enjoyment. Her pen and 
her pencil were frequently in her hand ; she occupied herself 



2U0 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

also with her needle in embroidery on canvas, and other 
fancy work. Hope brightened with the exhilaration of her 
spirits. " I now walk and ride, eat and sleep as usual," she 
observes in a letter to a young friend, " and although not well, 
have strong hopes that the opening spring, which renovates 
the flowers, and fields, and streams, will revive my enfeebled 
frame, and restore me to my wonted health." In these moods 
she was the life of the domestic circle, and these moods were 
frequent and long. And here we would observe, that though 
these memoirs, which are furnished principally from the recol- 
lections of an afflicted mother, may too often represent this 
gifted little being as a feeble invalid struggling with mortality, 
yet in truth her life, though a brief, was a bright and happy one. 
At times she was full of playful and innocent gayety ; at others 
of intense mental exaltation ; and it was the very intensity of 
her enjoyment that made her so often indulge in those poetic 
paroxysms, if we may be allowed the expression, which filled 
her mother with alarm. A few weeks of this intellectual ex- 
citement was followed by another rupture of a blood-vessel in 
the lungs, and a long interval of extreme debility. The suc- 
ceeding winter was one of vicissitude. She had several at- 
tacks of bleeding at the lungs, which evidently alarmed her 
at the time, though she said nothing, and endeavored to re- 
press all manifestation of her feelings. If taken suddenly, she 
instantly resorted to the sofa, and, by a strong effort, strove to 
suppress every emotion. With her eyes closed, her lips com- 
pressed, and her thin pale hand resting in that of her anxious 
mother, she seemed to be waiting the issue. Not a murmur 
would escape her lips, nor did she ever complain of pain. 
She would often say, by way of consolation, to her mother, 
* Mamma, I am highly favored. I hardly know what is meant 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 221 

by pain. I am sure I never, to my recollection, have felt it." 
The moment she was able to sit up, after one of these alarm- 
ing attacks, every vestige of a sick-chamber must be removed. 
No medicine, no cap, no bed-gown, no loose wrapper must 
be in sight. Her beautiful dark hair must be parted on her 
broad, high forehead, her dress arranged with the same care 
and neatness as when in perfect health ; indeed she studied to 
banish from her appearance all that might remind her friends 
that her health was impaired, and, if possible, to drive the 
idea from her own thoughts. Her reply to every inquiry about 
her health was, " Well, quite well ; or at least I feel so, though 
mother continues to treat me as an invalid. True I have a 
cold, attended by a cough, that is not willing to leave me ; but 
when the spring returns, with its mild air and sweet blossoms, 
I think this cough, which alarms mother so much, will leave 
me." 

She had, indeed, a strong desire to live ; and the cause of 
that desire is indicative of her character. With all her retir- 
ing modesty, she had an ardent desire for literary distinction. 
The example of hei sister Lucretia was incessantly before her ; 
she was her leading star, and her whole soul was but to emu- 
late her soarings into the pure regions of poetry. Her appre- 
hensions were that she might be cut off in the immaturity of 
her powers. A simple, but most touching ejaculation, betrayed 
this feeling, as, when lying on a sofa, in one of those alarming 
paroxysms of her malady, she turned her eyes, full of mourn- 
ful sweetness, upon her mother, and, in a low, subdued voice, 
exclaimed, " Oh ! my dear, dear mother ! 1 am so young ! " 

We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia was 
incessantly before her, and no better proof can be given of it 
than in the following lines, written at this time, which breathe 
vol. n 10 



irl MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the heavenly aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains, 
to us, quite unearthly. We may have read poetry more arti- 
ficially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly di- 
vine in its inspiration. 

TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

My sister! With that thrilling word 
What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring! 

What echoes in my heart are stirred, 
While thus I touch the trembling string ! 

My sister ! ere this youthful mind 

Could feel the value of thine own; 
Ere this infantine heart could bind, 

In its deep cell, one look, one tone, 

To glide along on memory's stream, 
And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee; 

Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream, 
Thy soul had struggled, and was free! 

My sister ! with this mortal eye 

I ne'er shall see thy form again; 
And never shall this mortal ear 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain ! 

Yet fancy wild and glowing love 

Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 
Enwreathed with graces from above, 

And decked in heaven's own fadeless hue. 

Thy glance of pure seraphic light 

Sheds o'er my heart its soft'ningray; 
Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 

And hover o'er my path by day. 

I cannot weep that thou art fled ; 

For ever blends my soul with thine, 
Each thought, by purer impulse led, 

Is soaring on to realms divine. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 225 

Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts. 

And lays its inmost recess bare ; 
Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 

And soothes each wilder passion there. 

I hear thee in the summer breeze, 

See thee in all that 's pure or fair; 
Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, 

Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere. 

Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep. 

Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue; 
Thy tears, " such tears as angels weep," 

Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 

Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, 

And teach its softer strains to flow ; 
Thy spirit checks each vain desire, 

And gilds the low'ring brow of woe. 

When fancy wings her upward flight 

On through the viewless realms of air, 
Clothed in its robe of matchless light, 

I view thy ransomed spirit there ! 

Far from her wild delusive dreams, 

It leads my raptured soul away, 
Where the pure fount of glory streams, 

And saints live on through endless day. 

When the dim lamp of future years 

.Sheds o'er my path its glimmering faint. 
First in the view thy form appears, 

My sister, and my guardian saint ! 

Thou gem of light ! my leading star ! 

What thou hast been, I strive to be; 
When from the path I wander far, 

Oh, turn thy guiding beam on me. 

Teach me to fill thy place below, 
That I may dwell with thee above; 



224 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

• To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 
And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 

Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, 
For sin too pure, for earth too bright 1 

And Death, who called thee hence away 
Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 

A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
Beyond the ocean's swelling wave 

Which gilds the memory of tne dead, 
And poms its radiance on thy grave 

When Day hath left his glowing car, 
And Evening spreads her robe of love; 

When worlds, like travellers from afar, 
Meet in the azure fields above; 

When all is still, and Fancy's realm 
Is opening to the eager view, 

Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, 
Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue 

I know that here thy harp is mute, 
. And quenched the bright poetic fire, 
Yet still I bend my ear, to catch 
The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 

Oh! if this partial converse now 
So joyous to my heart can be, 

How must the streams of rapture flow 
When both are chainless, both are fre«i 

When borne from earth for evermore, 
Our souls in sacred joy unite, 

At God's almighty throne adore, 
And bathe in beams of endless light ! 

Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 

I must not, dare not dwell on thee ; 
My soul, immersed in life's dark stream, 

Is far too earthly to be free. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 225 

Though heaven's bright portal were unclosed, 

And angels wooed me from on high, 
Too much I fear my shrinking soul 

Would cast on earth its longing eye. 

Teach me to fill thy place below, 

That I may dwell with thee above ; 
To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 

And prove, like thee, a sister's love. 

It was probably this trembling solicitude about the duration 
of her existence, that made her so anxious, about this time, to 
employ every interval of her precarious health in the cultiva- 
tion of her mental powers. Certain it is, during the winter, 
checkered as it was with repeated fits of indisposition, she 
applied herself to historical and other studies with an ardor 
that often made her mother tremble for the consequences. 

The following letters to a young female friend were written 
during one of these intervals : — 

" New York, February 26, 1837. 

" Notwithstanding all the dangers which might have be- 
fallen your letter, my dear Henrietta, it arrived safely at its 
resting-place, and is now lying open before me, as I am quietly 
sitting, this chill February morning, to inform you of its safe 
arrival. I find I was not mistaken in believing you too kind 
to be displeased at my remissness ; and I now hope that 
through Our continued intercourse neither will have cause to 
complain of the other's negligence. 

" For my own part, I am always willing to assign every rea- 
son but that of forgetfulness for a friend's silence. Knowing 
how often I am obliged to claim this indulgence for myself, 
and how often ill health prevents me from writing to those I 
love, I am the more ready to frame apologies for others ; in- 



22G MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

deed I think this spirit of charity (if so I may call it) is neces- 
sary to the happiness of correspondents, and as I am sure you 
possess it, I trust we shall both glide quietly along without any 
of those little jars which so often interrupt the purest friend- 
ships. And now that my dissertation on letter-writing is at an 
end, I must proceed to inform you of what I fear will be a 
disappointment, as it breaks away all those sweet anticipations 
expressed in your affectionate letter. Father has concluded 
that we shall not return to Plattsburg next spring, as he had 
once intended ; he fears the effects of the cold winds of Lake 
Champlain upon mother and myself, who are both delicate ; 
and as we have so many dear friends in and about the city, a 
nearer location would be pleasanter to us and to them. We 
now think seriously of returning to Ballston, that beautiful 
little village where we have already spent two delightful years ; 
and though in this case I must relinquish the idea of visiting 
my dear ' old home ' and my dear young friend, hope points to 
the hour when you may become my guest, and where the 
charms of novelty will in some degree repay us for the delight 
ful associations and remembrances we had hoped to enjoy. 
But I cannot help now and then casting a backward glance 
upon the beautiful scenes you describe, and wishing myself 
with you. A philosopher would say, ' Since you cannot enjoy 
what you desire, turn to the pleasures you may possess, and 
seek in them consolation for what you have lost ; ' but I am 

no philosopher 

"I will endeavor to answer your question about Mrs. He- 
mans. I have read several lives of this distinguished poetess, 
by different authors, and in all of them find something new 
to admire in her character and venerate in her genius ! She 
was a woman of deep feeling, lively fancy, and acute sensi- 



31ARGARET DAVIDSON. 227 

bilities ; so acute, indeed, as to have formed her chief unhap- 
piness through life. She mingles her own feelings with her 
poems so well, that in reading them you read her character. 
But there is one thing I have often remarked : the mind soon 
wearies in perusing many of her pieces at once. She expresses 
those sweet sentiments so often, and introduces the same 
stream of beautiful ideas so constantly, that they sometimes 
degenerate into monotony. I know of no higher treat than 
to read a few of her best productions, and comment upon and 
feel their beauties ; but perusing her volume is to me like list- 
ening to a strain of sweet music repeated over and over again, 
until it becomes so familiar to the ear, that it loses the charm 
of variety. 

" Now, dear H., is not this presumption in me, to criticize 
so exquisite an author ? But you desired my opinion, and I 
have given it to you without reserve. 

"You desire me to send you an original poem for your- 
self. Now, my dear Hetty, this is something I am not at 
present able to do for any of my friends, writing being sup- 
posed quite injurious to persons with weak lungs. And I 
have still another reason. You say the effect of conveying 
feelings from the heart and recording them upon paper, seems 
to deprive them of half their warmth and ardor ! Now, 
my dear friend, would not the effect of forming them into 
verse seem to render them still less sincere ? Is not plain 
prose, as it slides rapidly from the pen, more apt to speak the 
feelings of the heart, than when an hour or two is spent in 
giving them rhyme and measure and all the attributes of 
poetry?" ..... 



22b MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

TO THE SAME. 

" New York, April 2, 1837. 
"About an hour since, my dear Henrietta, I received your 
token of remembrance, and commenced my answer with an 
act of obedience to your sovereign will ; but I fear you will 
repent when too late, and while nodding over the closely writ- 
ten sheet, and peering impatiently into each crowded corner, 
you will secretly wish you had allowed my pen to commence 
its operations at a more respectful distance from the top of 
the page. However, the request was your own ; I obey like 
an obedient friend, and you must abide the consequences of 
your rash demand. Should the first glance at' my well-filled 
sheet be followed by a yawn, or its last word be welcomed 
with a smile, you must blame your own imprudence in bring- 
ing down upon your luckless head the accumulated nothings 
of a scribbler like myself. It is indeed true that we shall 
not return to Plattsburg ; and much as I long to revisit the 

home of my infancy, and the friends of my earliest remem- 

• 
brance, I shall be obliged to relinquish the pleasure in reality, 

though fancy, unshackled by earth, shall direct her pinions to 
the north, and linger, delighted, on the beautiful banks of 
the Champlain ! Methinks I hear you exclaim, with im- 
patience, ' Fancy I what is it ? I long for something more 
substantial.' So do I, ma chere, but since I cannot hope to 
behold my dear native village and its dear inhabitants, with 
other eyes than those of fancy, I will e'en employ them to the 
best of my ability. You may be sure we do not prefer the 
confined and murky atmosphere of the city to die pure and 
health-giving breezes of the country ; far from it — we are 
already preparing to remove, as soon as the mild influence 
:>f spring has prevailed over the chilling blasts which we still 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 229 

hear whistling around us ; and gladly shall we welcome the 
day that will release us from our bondage. But there is some 
drawback to every pleasure — some bitter drop in almost 
every cup of enjoyment ; and we shall taste this most keenly 
when we bid farewell to the delightful circle of friends who 
have cheered us during the solitude and confinement of this 
dreary winter. The New York air, so far from agreeing 
with us, has deprived us of every enjoyment beyond the 
boundaries of our own walls, and it will be hard to leave 
those friends who have taught us to forget the privations of 
ill health in the pleasure of their society. We have chosen 
Ballston for our temporary home, from the hope of seeing 
them oftener there than we could in a secluded town, and 
because pure air, medicinal waters, and good society have all 
combined to render it a delightful country residence ; yet, with 
all these advantages, is can never possess half the charms 
of my dear old home ! 

" That dear old home, where passed my childish years, 
When fond affection wiped my infant tears ! 
Where first I learned from whence my blessings came, 
And lisped, in faltering tones, a mother'' s name ! 

" That dear old home, where memory fondly clings, 
Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 
And pass, the hours in pleasing dreams away ! 

" Oh, shall I ne'er behold thy waves again, 
My native lake, my beautiful Champlain ? 
Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 
In sweet communion with my childhood's friend 't 

" Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 
The patriot's craddle, and the warrior's grave? 
10* 



280 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Thy mountains, tinged with daylight's parting glow? 
Thy islets, mirror' d in the stream below? 

" Back ! back ! — thou present, robed in shadows lie, 
And rise, thou past, before my raptured eye ! 
Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 
And Memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene! 

" Lo ! how the view beneath her pencil grows ! 
The flow'ret blooms, the winding streamlet flows ; 
With former friends I trace my footsteps o'er, 
And muse, delighted, on my own green shore! 

" Alas ! it fades — the fairy dream is past ! 
Dissolved the veil by sportive Fancy cast. 
Oh, why should thus our brightest, dreams depart, 
And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart? 

" Where'er through future life my steps may roam, 
I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home; 
With all my joys the thought of thee shall blend, 
And, joined with thee, shall rise my childhood's friend. 

" Mother is most truly alive to all these feelings. During 
our first year in New York we were living a few miles from 
the city, at one of the loveliest situations in the world ! I 
think 1 have seldom seen a sweeter spot ; but all its beauties 
could not divert her thoughts from our own dear home, and 
despite the superior advantages we there enjoyed, she wept 
to enjoy it again. But enough of this ; if I suffer my fancy 
to dwell longer upon these loved scenes, I shall scribble over 
my whole sheet, and, leaving out what I most wish to say, 
fill it with nothing but ' Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! ' 

as the song goes 

" June, 1837. 

"Now for the mighty theme upon which I scarcely dare 
to dwell, — mv visit to Plattsburg ! Yes, my dear H., I do 
think, or rather I do I/ope, that such a time may come when 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 23 i 

I can at least spend a week with you. I dare not hope for 
a longer time, for I know I shall be disappointed. About 
the middle of this month brother graduates, and will leave 
West Point for home. He intends to visit Plattsburg, and 
it will take much to wean me from my favorite plan of ac- 
companying him. However, all is uncertain, — I must not 
think of it too much, — but if I do come, it will be with the 
hope of gaining a still greater pleasure. We are now delight- 
fully situated. Can you not return with me, and make me 
a visit? What joy is like the joy of anticipation? What 
pleasure like those we look forward to, through a long lapse 
of time, and dwell upon as some bright land that we shall 
inhabit when the present shall have become the past ? I have 
heard it observed that it was foolish to anticipate — that it 
was only increasing the pangs of disappointment. Not so ; 
do we not, in our most sanguine hopes, acknowledge to our- 
selves a fear, a doubt, an expectation of disappointment? 
Shall we lose the enjoyment of the present, because evil 
may come in future ? No, no — if anticipation was not meant 
for a solace, an alleviation of the sorrows of life, would it 
have been so strongly implanted in our hearts by the great 
Director of all our passions ? No — it is too precious ! I 
would give up half the reality of joy for the sweet anticipa- 
tion. *Stop — I have gone too far — for indeed I could not 
resign my visit to you, though I might hope and anticipate 
for years ! 

* Tust as I had written the above, father interrupted me 
with an invitation to ride. We have just returned from a 
long, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot compare with 
Plattsburg for its rich and varied scenery, still there are 
romantic woods and shady paths which cannot fail to delight 
the true lover of Nature 



- 32 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" So you do have the blues, eh ? I had almost said I was 
glad of it ; but that would be too cruel — I will only say, 
one does not like to be alone, or in anything singular, and 
I too, once in a while, receive a visit from these provoking 
imps — are they not? You should not have blamed Scott 
only, (excuse me,) but yourself, for selecting such a book to 
chase away melancholy. 

* b You ask me if I remember those story-telling days ? In- 
deed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than the 
recollection of those happy hours ! If my memory could 
only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly would I 
resume and continue it when I meet you again. I will ease 
your heart of its fear for mine — your scolding did not break 
it. My dear H., it is not made of such brittle materials as 
to crack for a trifle. No, no ! It would be far more prudent 
to save it entire for some greater occasion, and then make 
the crash as loud as possible — don't you think so ? Oh, non- 
sensical nonsense ! Well — 

1 The greatest and the wisest men 
"Will fool a little now and then.' 

But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen should 
slide off into some new absurdity." 

On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left New York for 
Ballston. They had scarce reached there when Mrs. David- 
son had an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, which con- 
fined her to her bed, and rendered her helpless as an infant. 
It was Margaret's turn now to play the nurse, which she did 
with the most tender assiduity. The paroxysms of her 
mother's complaint were at first really alarming, as may be 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 233 

seen by the following extract of a letter from Margaret to 
Miss Sedgwick, written some short time afterwards : — 

" We at first thought she would never revive. It was indeed 
a dreadful hour, my dear madam — a sad trial for poor father 
and myself, to watch, as we supposed, the last agonies of one 
so beloved as my dear mother! But the cloud has passed 
by, and my heart, relieved from its burden, is filled, almost 
to overflowing, with gratitude and joy. After a few hours 
of dreadful suspense, reaction took place, and since then she 
has been slowly and steadily improving. In a few days, I 
hope, she will be able to ride, and breathe some of this de-n 
lightful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and restore her. 
My own health has improved astonishingly since my coming 
here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as much as possible 
in the open air, and find it of great service to me. Oh, 

how much I hope to see you here ! Do, if possible, 

try the Ballston air once more. It has been useful to you 
once, it might be still more so now. You will find warm 
hearts to welcome you, and we will do all in our power to 
make your visit pleasant to you. The country does indeed 
look beautiful ! The woods are teeming with wild flowers, 
and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild warbling of the 
birds is far more sweet to me than the most labored per- 
formances of art ; they may weary by repetition, but what 
heart can resist the influence of a lovely day ushered in by 
the morning song of those sweet carollers ! and even to 
sleep, as it were, by their melodious evening strain ! How 
I wish you could be here to enjoy it with me." 

The summer of 1837 was one of the happiest of her fleeting 
existence. For some time after the family removed to Ballston 



234: MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

she was very much confined to the house by the illness of her 
mother, and the want of a proper female companion to ac- 
company her abroad. At length a Mr. and Mrs. H., estimable 
and intimate friends, of a highly intellectual character, came 
to the village. Their society was an invaluable acquisition to 
Margaret. In company with them she was enabled to enjoy 
the healthful recreations of the country ; to ramble in the 
woods ; to take exercise on horseback, of which she was ex- 
tremely fond, and to make excursions about the neighborhood ; 
while they exerted a guardian care to prevent her, in her en- 
thusiastic love for rural scenery, from exposing herself to 
anything: detrimental to her health and strength. She g;aye 
herself up, for a time, to these exhilarating exercises, abstain- 
ing from her usual propensity to overtask her intellect, for she 
had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recreations, 
and a holiday frame of mind would effectually reestablish her 
health. As usual, in her excited moods, she occasionally 
carried these really healthful practices to excess, and would 
often, says her mother, engage, with a palpitating heart and a 
pulse beating at the rate of one hundred and thirty in a 
minute, in all the exercises usually prescribed to preserve health 
in those who are in full possession of the blessing. She was 
admonished of her danger by several attacks upon her lungs 
during the summer, but as they were of short duration she still 
flattered herself that she was g-etting- well. There seemed to 
be almost an infatuation in her case. The exhilaration of her 
spirits was at times so great as almost to overpower her. Of- 
ten would she stand by the window admiring a glorious sunset, 
until she would be raised into a kind of ecstacy ; her eye would 
kindle ; a crimson glow would mount into her cheek, and she 
would indulge in some of her reveries about the glories of 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 235 

heaven and the spirits of her deceased sisters, partly uttering 
her fancies aloud, until turning and catching her mother's eye 
fixed painfully upon her, she would throw her arms round her 
neck, kiss away her tears, and sink exhausted on her bosom. 
The excitement over r she would resume her calmness, and con- 
verse on general topics. Among her writings are fragments 
hastily scrawled down at this time, showing the vague aspira- 
tions of her spirit, and her vain attempts to grasp those shadowy 
images that sometimes flit across the poetic mind. 

" Oh, for a something more than this, 
To fill the void within my breast; 
A sweet reality of bliss, 

A something bright, but unexpressed. 

My spirit longs for something higher 
Than life's dull stream can e'er supply; 

Something to feed this inward fire, 
This spark, which never more can die. 

I 'd hold companionship with all 

Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 
With glowing heart adoring fall, 

And kneel at Nature's sylvan shrine. 

My soul is like a broken lyre, 
Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone; 

A note, half trembling on the wire — 
A heart that wants an echoing tone. 

When shall I find this shadowy bliss, 

This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 
This something words can ne'er express, 

So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 

Language ! thou never canst portray 

The fancies floating o'er my soul ! 
Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away 

Which o'er my changing visions roll ! 



236 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And again — 

" Oh, I have gazed on forms of light, 
Till life seemed ebbing in a tear — 
Till in that fleeting space of sight 
Were merged the feelings of a year. 

And I have heard the »oice of song, 
Till my full heart gushed -wild and free, 

And my rapt soul would float along 
As if on waves of melody. 

But while I glowed at beauty's glance, 

I longed to feel a deeper thrill ; 
And while I heard that dying strain, 

I sighed for something sweeter still. 

I have been happy, and my soul 

Free from each sorrow, care, regret; 
Yet even in these hours of bliss 

I longed to find them happier yet. 

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 

Some meteor thought has glanced at will ; 

'T was bright — but ever have I sighed 
To find a fancy brighter still. 

Why are these restless, vain desires, 
Which always grasp at something more, 

To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 

Which burn unseen — unnoticed soar? 

Well might the heathen sage have known 

That earth must fail the soul to bind; 
That life, and life's tame joys, alone 

Could never chain the ethereal mind." 

The above, as we have before observed, are mere fragments, 
unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the verses have a 
vagueness incident to the mood of mind in which they were 
sonceived and the haste with which they were penned ; but in 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 237 

these lofty, indefinite aspirations of a young, half-schooled, and 
inexperienced mind, we see the early and impatient flutterings 
of a poetical genius, which, if spared, might have soared to the 
highest regions. 

In a letter written to Miss Sedgwick during the autumn, she 
speaks of her health as having rapidly improved. " I am no 
longer afflicted by the cough, and mother feels it unnecessary 
now to speak to me as being ill ; though my health is, and 
probably always will be, very delicate." — " And she really did 
appear better," observes her mother, " and even I, who had 
ever been nervously alive to every symptom of her disease, 
was deluded by those favorable appearances, and began to en- 
tertain a hope that she might yet recover, when another sudden 
attack of bleeding at the lungs convinced us of the fallacy of 
our hopes, and warned us to take every measure to ward off 
the severity of the climate in the coming winter. A consulta- 
tion was held between her father and our favorite physician, 
and the result was that she was to keep within doors. This 
was indeed sad, but, after an evident struggle with her own 
mind, she submitted, with her accustomed good sense, to the 
decree. All that affection could suggest was done, to prevent 
the effects of this seclusion on her spirits." A cheerful room 
was allotted to her, commanding an agreeable prospect, and 
communicating, by folding doors, to a commodious parlor ; the 
temperature of the whole apartment was regulated by a ther- 
mometer. Hither her books, writing-table, drawing implements, 
and fancy work were transported. When once established in 
these winter-quarters, she became contented and cheerful. 
" She read and wrote," says her mother, " and amused herself 
with drawing and needle-work. After spending as much time as 
I dare permit in the more serious studies in which she was en- 



238 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

gaged, she would unbend her mind with one of Scott's delightful 
novels, or play with her kitten ; and at evening we were usually 
joined by our interesting friends, Mr. and Mrs. H. It is now a 
melancholy satisfaction to me to believe that she could not, in 
her state of health, be happier or more pleasantly situated. 
She was always charmed with the conversation of Mr. H , and 
followed him through all the mazes of philosophy with the 
greatest delight. She read Cousin with a high zest, and pro- 
duced an abstract from it which gave a convincing proof that 
she understood the principles there laid down ; after which she 
gave a complete analysis of the ' Introduction to the History of 
Philosophy,' by the same author. Her mind must have been 
deeply engrossed by these studies, yet it was not visible from 
her manner. During this short winter she accomplished what 
to many would have been the labor of years, yet there was no 
haste, no flurry ; she pursued quietly her round of occupations, 
always cheerful. The hours flew swiftly by ; not a moment 
lagged. I think she never spent a more happy winter than 
this, with all its varied employments." 

The following extract from a letter to one of her young 
friends, gives an idea of her course of reading during this 
winter ; and how, in her precocious mind, the playfulness of the 
child mingled with the thoughtfulness of the woman : — 

" You ask me what I am reading. Alas ! book-worm as I 
am, it makes me draw a long breath to contemplate the books 
I have laid out for perusal. In the first place, I am reading 
' Condillac's Ancient History,' in French, twenty-four volumes ; 
< Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,' in four 
large volumes.. I have not quite finished ' Josephus.' In my 
moments of recreation I am poring over Scott's bewitching 
novels. I wish we could give them some other name instead 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 239 

of novels, for they certainly should not bear the same title with 
the thousand and one productions of that class daily swarming 
from the press. Do you think they ought? So pure, so 
pathetic, so historical, and, above all, so true to human nature ! 
How beautifully he mingles the sad with the grotesque, in such 
a manner that the opposite feelings they excite harmonize per- 
fectly with each other. His works can be read over and over 
again, and every time with a growing sense of their beauties. 
Do you read French ? If so, I wish we could read the same 
works together. It would be a great pleasure to me at least, 
and our mutual remarks might benefit each other. Supposing 
you will be pleased to hear of my amusements, however trif- 
ling, I will venture to name one, at the risk of lowering any 
great opinion you may have formed of my wisdom ! A pet 
kitten ! Yes, my dear Henrietta, a sweet little creature, 
with a graceful shape, playful temper, white breast, and dear 
little innocent eyes, which completely belie the reputed dis- 
position of a cat. He is neither deceitful, ferocious, nor un- 
grateful, but is certainly the most rational being for an irra- 
tional one, I ever saw. He is now snugly lying in my lap, 
watching every movement of my pen with a quiet purr of 
contentment. Have you such a pet? I wish you had, that 
we might both play with them at the same time, sunset, for 
instance, and while so far distant, feel that we were enjoying 
ourselves in the selfsame way. You ask what I think of ani- 
mal magnetism ? My dear Hetty, I have not troubled my 
head about it. I hear of it from every quarter, and mentioned 
so often with contempt, that I have thought of it only as an 
absurdity. If I understand it rightly, the leading principle is 
the influence of one mind upon another ; there is undoubtedly 
such an influence, to a reasonable degree, but as to throwing 



240 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

one into a magnetic sleep — presenting visions before their 
eyes of scenes passing afar off, it seems almost too ridiculous ! 
Still it may all be true / A hundred years since, what would 
have been our feelings to see what is now here so common, a 
steam-engine, breathing fire and smoke, gliding along with the 
rapidity of thought, and carrying at its black heels a train which 
a hundred men would fail to move. We know not but this 
apparent absurdity, this magnetism, may be a great and myste- 
rious secret, which the course of time will reveal and adapt to 

important purposes What are you studying ? Do 

you play ? Do you draw ? Please tell me everything. I wish 
I could form some picture of you to my mind's eye. It is so 
tormenting to correspond with a dear friend, and have no like- 
ness of them in our fancy. I remember everything as it used 
to be, but time makes great changes ! Now here comes my 
saucy kitten, and springs upon the table before me as if he 
had a perfect right there. ' W T hat do you mean, little puss ? 
Come, sit for your portrait.' I hope, dear H., you will fully ap- 
preciate this painting, which I consider as my chef-d'oeuvre, and 
preserve it as a faithful likeness of my inimitable cat. But do 
forgive me so much nonsense ! But I feel that to you I can 
rattle off anything that comes uppermost. It is near night, and 
the sun is setting so beautifully after the long storm, that I could 
not sit here much longer, even if I had a whole page to fill. 
How splendid the moon must look on the bright waters of the 
Champlain this night ! Good-bye, good-bye — love to all from 
all, and believe me, now as ever, 

" Your sincere friend, 

" Margaret." 

The following passages from her mother's memorandums 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 241 

touch upon matters of more solemn interest, which occasionally 
occupied her young mind : — 

" During the whole of the preceding summer her mind had 
dwelt much upon the subject of religion. Much of her time 
was devoted to serious reflection, sell-examination, and prayer. 
But she evidently shunned all conversation upon the subject. 
It was a theme she had always conversed upon with pleasure 
until now. This not only surprised but pained me. I was a 
silent but close and anxious observer of the operations of her 
mind, and saw that, with all her apparent cheerfulness she was 
ill at ease ; perfect silence was however maintained on both 
sides until the winter commenced, and brought us more closely 
together. Then her young heart again reposed itself, in confid- 
ing love, upon the bosom that heretofore had shared its every 
thought, and the subject became one of daily discussion. I 
found her mind perplexed and her ideas confused by points 
of doctrine which she could neither understand nor reconcile 
with her views of the justice and benevolence of God, as ex- 
hibited in the Scriptures. Her views of the Divine character 
and attributes had ever been of that elevated cast, which, while 
they raised her mind above all grosser things, sublimated and 
purified her feelings and desires, and prepared her for that 
bright and holy communion without which she could enjoy 
nothing. Her faith was of that character * which casteth out 
fear.' It was sweet and soothing to depend upon Jesus for sal- 
vation. It was delightful to behold, in the all-imposing maj- 
esty of God, a kind and tender father, who pitied her infir- 
mities, and on whose justice and benevolence she could rest 
for time and eternity. She had, during the summer, heard 
much disputation on the doctrinal points, which she had silently 
and carefully examined, and had been shocked at the position 



242 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

which many professing Christians had taken ; she saw much 
inconsistency, much bitterness of spirit, on points which she 
had been taught to consider not essential to salvation ; she 
saw that the spirit of persecution and uncharitableness, which 
pervaded many classes of Christians, had almost totally de- 
stroyed that bond of brotherhood which ought firmly to unite 
the followers of the humble Saviour ; and she could not rec- 
oncile these feelings with her ideas of the Christian character. 
Her meekness and humility led her sometimes to doubt her 
own state. She felt that her religious duties were but too 
feebly performed, and that without divine assistance all her 
resolutions to be more faithful were vain. She often said, 
' Mamma, I am far from right. I resolve and re-resolve, and 
yet remain the same.' I had shunned everything that savored 
of controversy, knowing her enthusiasm and extreme sensibility 
on the subject of religion ; I dreaded the excitement it might 
create. But I now more fully explained, as well as I was able, 
the simple and divine truths of the Gospel, and held up to her 
view the beauty and benevolence of the Father's character, 
and the unbounded love which could have devised the atoning 
sacrifice ; and advised her at present to avoid controversial 
writings, and make a more thorough examination of the Scrip- 
tures, that she might found her principles upon the evidences 
to be deduced from that groundwork of our faith, unbiased by 
the opinions and prejudices of any man. I represented to her, 
thai, young as she was, while in feeble health, researches into 
those knotty and disputed subjects would only confuse her 
mind ; that there was enough of plain practical religion to be 
gathered from the Bible ; and urged the importance of fre- 
quent and earnest prayer, which, with God's blessing, would 
compose the agitation of her mind, which I considered as 
essential to her inward peace." 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 243 

On one occasion, while perusing Lockhart's " Life of Scott," 
with great interest, her mother ventured to sound her feelings 
upon the subject of literary fame, and asked her whether she 
had no ambition to have her name go down to posterity. She 
took her mother's hand with enthusiasm, kissed her cheek, 
and, retiring to the other room, in less than an hour returned 
with the following lines : — 

IV DIE AND BE FORGOTTEN. 

A few short years will roll along, 

With mingled joy and pain, 
Then shall I pass — a broken tone ! 

An echo of a strain ! 

Then shall I fade away from life, 

Like cloud-tints from the sky, 
"When the breeze sweeps their surface o'er 

And they are lost for aye. 

The world will laugh, and weep, and sing, 

As gayly as before, 
But cold and silent I shall be — 

As I have been no more. 

The haunts I loved, the flowers I nursed 

Will bloom as sweetly still, 
But other hearts and other hands 

My vacant place shall fill. 

And even mighty love must fail 

To bind my memory here — 
Like fragrance round the faded rose, 

'T will perish with the year. 

The soul may look, with fervent hope, 

To worlds of future bliss; 
But oh, how saddening to the heart 

To be forgot in this ! 



244 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

How many a noble mind hath shrunk 
From death without a name ; 

Hath looked beyond his shadowy realm. 
And lived and died for Fame '. 

Could we not view the darksome grave 
With calmer, steadier eye, 

If conscious that a world's regret 
"Would seek us where we lie ? 

Faith points, with mild, confiding glanc*, 
To realms of bliss above, 

Where peace and joy and justice reign. 
And never-dying love; 

But still our earthly feelings cling 
Around this bounded spot; 

There is a something burns within 
Which will not be forgot. 

It cares not for a gorgeous hearse, 
For waving torch and plume ; 

For pealing hymn, funereal verse, 
Or richly sculptured tomb ; 

But it would live undimmed and fresh, 
When flickering life departs ; 

Would find a pure and honored grave 
Embalmed in kindred hearts. 

Who would not brave a life of tears 
To win an honored name, 

One sweet and heart-awakening tone 
From the silver trump of Fame ? 

To be, when countless years have past, 
The good man's glowing theme? 

To be — but I — what right have I 
To this bewildering dream? 

Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain, 
To dwell on thoughts like these; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 245 

7, a frail child, whose feehle frame 
Already knows disease ! 

Who, ere another spring may dawn, 

Another summer bloom, 
May, like the flowers of autumn, lie, 

A tenant of the tomb. 

Away, away, presumptuous thought ! 

I will not dwell on thee ! 
For what, alas ! am I to Fame, 

And what is Fame to me? 

Let all these wild and longing thoughts 

With the dying year expire, 
And I will nurse within my breast 

A purer, holier fire ! 

Yes, I will seek my mind to win 

From all these dreams of strife, 
And toil to write my name within 

The glorious Book of Life. 

Then shall old Time who, rolling on, 

Impels me towards the tomb, 
Prepare for me a glorious crown, 

Through endless years to bloom. 
December, 1837. 

The confinement to the house, in a graduated temperature, 
the round of cheerful occupations, and the unremitting care 
taken of her, produced a visible melioration of her symptoms. 
Her cough gradually subsided, the morbid irritability of her 
system, producing often an unnatural flow of spirits, was 
quieted ; as usual, she looked forward to spring as the genial 
and delightful season that was to restore her. to perfect health 
and freedom. 

Christmas was approaching, which had ever been a time of 
social enjoyment in the family ; as it drew near, hdwever, the 
11 



246 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

remembrance of those lost from the fireside circle was pain- 
fully felt by Mrs. Davidson. Margaret saw the gloom on her 
mothers brow, and, kissing her, exclaimed, " Dear mother, do 
not let us waste our present happiness in useless repining. 
You see I am well, and you are more comfortable, and dear 
father is in good health and spirits. Let us enjoy the present 
hour, and banish vain regrets ! " Having given this whole- 
some advice, she tripped off with a light step to prepare 
Christmas presents for the servants, which were to be dis- 
tributed by St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, in the old traditional 
way. Every animated being, rational or irrational, must share 
her liberality on that day of festivity and joy. Her Jenny, a 
little bay pony on which she had taken many healthful and 
delightful rides, must have a gayer blanket and an extra allow- 
ance of oats. u On Christmas morning," says her mother, 
" she woke with the first sound of the old house-clock striking 
the hour of five, and twining her arms round my neck, (for 
during this winter she shared my bed,) and kissing me agam 
and again, exclaimed, — 

' Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
The golden sun is dawning; ' 

then slipping a piece of paper into my hand, she sprang out of 
bed, and danced about the carpet, her kitten in her arms, with 
all the sportive glee of childhood. When I gazed upon her 
young face, so bright, so animated, and beautiful, beaming with 
innocence and love, and thought that perhaps this was the last 
anniversary of her Saviour's birth she might spend on earth, I 
could not suppress my emotions ; I caught her to my bosom in 
an agony of tenderness, while she, all unconscious of the 
nature of my feelings, returned my caresses with playful fond- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 247 

ness." The following verses were contained in the above* 
mentioned paper : — 

TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 

Wake, mother, wake to hope and glee, 

The golden sun is dawning ! 
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 

This happy Christmas morning! 

Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow, 

Each lip is laughing merrily; 
A smile hath past o'er Winter's brow, 

And the very snow looks cheerily. 

Hark to the voice of the awakened day, 

To the sleigh-bells gayly ringing, 
While a thousand, thousand happy hearts 

Their Christmas lays are singing. 

'T is a joyous hour of mirth and love, 

And my heart is overflowing ! 
Come, let us raise our thoughts above, 

While pure and fresh and glowing. 

'T is the happiest day of the rolling year, 

But it comes in a robe of mourning, 
Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here 

Its icy shroud adorning. 

It comes when all around is dark, 

'T is meet it so should be, 
For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, 

The spirit's jubilee. 

It does not need the bloom of Spring, 

Or Summer's light and gladness, 
For Love has spread her beaming wing 

O'er Winter's brow of sadness. 

*T was thus he came, beneath a cloud 
His spirit's light concealing, 



848 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

No crown of earth, no kingly robe 
His heavenly power revealing. 

His soul was pure, his mission love, 

His aim a world's redeeming; 
To raise the darkened soul above 

Its wild and sinful dreaming. 

With all his Father's power and love, 

The cords of guilt to sever; 
To ope a sacred fount of light, 

Which flows, shall flow forever. 

Then we shall hail the glorious day, 

The spirit's new creation, 
And pour our grateful feelings forth, 

A pure and warm libation. 

Wake, mother, wake to chastened joy, 

The golden sun is dawning! 
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 

This happy Christmas morning. 

"The last day of the year 1837 arrived. ' Mamma/ said she ; 
'will you sit up with me to-night until after 12?' I looked 
inquiringly. She replied, ' I wish to bid farewell to the present, 
and to welcome the coming year.' After the family retired, 
and we had seated ourselves by a cheerful fire to spend the 
hours which would intervene until the year 1838 should dawn 
upon us, she was serious, but not sad, and as if she had nothing 
more than usual upon her mind, took some light sewing in her 
hand, and so interested me by her conversation that I scarcely 
noticed the flight of time. At half-past 11 she handed me 
i book, pointing to some interesting article to amuse me, then 
took her seat at the writing-table, and composed the piece on 
the departure of the old year 1837 and the commencement of 
the new one 1838. When she had finished the Farewell, ex- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 249 

cept the last verse, it wanted a few minutes of 12. She 
rested her arms in silence upon the table, apparently absorbed 
in meditation. The clock struck — a sort of deep thought 
passed over her expressive face — she remained solemn and 
silent until the last tone had ceased to vibrate, when she again 
resumed her pen and wrote. The bell hath ceased. When 
the clock struck, I arose from my seat and stood leaning over 
the back of her chair, with a mind deeply solemnized by a 
scene so new and interesting. The words flowed rapidly from 
her pen, without haste or confusion, and at 1 o'clock we were 
quietly in bed." 

We again subjoin the poem alluded to, trusting that these 
effusions, which are so intimately connected with her personal 
history, will be read with greater interest when given in con- 
junction with the scenes and circumstances which prompted 
them. 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1837 AND THE COMMENCE 

MENT OF 1838. 

Hark ! to the house-clock's measured chime, 

As it cries to the startled ear, 
" A dirge for the soul of departing Time, 

A requiem for the year!" 

Thou art passing away to the mighty past, 

Where thy countless brethren sleep, 
Till the great Archangel's trumpet-blast 

Shall waken land and deep. 

Oh, the lovely and beautiful things that lie 

On thy cold and motionless breast ! 
Oh, the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the sighs, 

Departing with thee to their rest. 

. Thou wert ushered to life amid darkness and gloom, 
But the cold icy cloud passed away, 



250 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And Spring, in her verdure and freshness and bloom 
Touched with glory thy mantle of gray. 

The flow'rets burst forth in their beauty — the trees 
In their exquisite robes were arrayed, 

But thou glidest along, and the flower and the leaf 
At the sound of thy footsteps decayed. 

And fairer young blossoms were blooming alone, 
And they died at the glance of thine eye, 

But a life was within which should rise o'er their own, 
And a spirit thou could'st not destroy. 

Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete, 

And fulfilled the Creator's behest, 
Then, adieu to thee, year of our sorrows and joys, 

And peaceful and long be thy rest. 

Farewell ! for thy truth-written record is full, 
And the page weeps, for sorrow and crime ; 

Farewell! for the leaf hath shut down on the past, 
And concealed the dark annals of time. 

The bell ! it hath ceased with its iron tongue 

To ring on the startled ear, 
The dirge o'er the grave of the lost one is rung. 

All hail to the new-born year! 

All hail to the new-born year ! 

To the child of hope and fear ! 

He comes on his car of state, 

And weaves our web of fate ; 

And he opens his robe to receive us all, 

And we live or die, and we rise or fall, 

In the arms of the new-born year ! 

Hope ! spread thy soaring wings ! 

Look forth on the boundless sea, 
And tract? thy bright and beautiful thing* 

On the veil of the great To Be. 

Build palaces broad as the sky, 
And store them with treasures of light, 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 251 

Let exquisite visions bewilder the e3 r e, 
And illumine the darkness of night. 

We are gliding fast from the buried year, 

And the present is no more ; 
But, Hope, we will borrow thy sparkling geai, 

And shroud the future o'er. 

Our tears and sighs shall sleep 

In the grave of the silent Past; 
We will raise up .flowers — nor weep — 

That the air-hues may not last. 

We will dream our dreams of joy, 

Ah ! Fear ! why darken the scene ? 
Why sprinkle that ominous tear 

My beautiful visions between ? 

Hath not Sorrow swift wings of her own, 

That thou must assist in her flight? 
Is not daylight too rapidly gone, 

That thou must urge onward the night? 

Ah ! leave me to fancy, to hope, 

For grief will too quickly be here ; 
Ah ! leave me to shadow forth figures of light, 

In the mystical robe of the year. 

'T is true, they may never assume 

The substance of pleasure — the real — 
But believe me our purest of joy 

Consists in the vague — the ideal. 

' Then away to the darksome cave, 

With thy sisters, the sigh and the tear; 
We will drink, in the crystal wave, 
The health of the new-born year. 

ft She had been for some time thinking of a subject for a 
poem, and the next day, which was the 1st of January, came 
to me in great perplexity and asked my advice. I had long 
desired that she would direct her attention to the beautiful 



252 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

and sublime narratives of the Old Testament, and now pro- 
posed that she should take the Bible and examine it with 
that view. After an hour or two spent in research she re- 
marked that there were many, very many subjects of deep 
and thrilling interest ; but, if she now should make a failure, 
her discouragement would be such as to prevent her from 
ever making another attempt. * I am now,' she said, ' trying 
my wings ; I will take a lighter subject at first : if I succeed, 
I will then write a more perfect poem, founded upon Sacred 
History.' " 

She accordingly took as a theme a prose tale, in a current 
work of the day, and wrote several pages with a flowing pen, 
but soon threw them by, dissatisfied. It was irksome to em- 
ploy the thoughts and fancies of another and to have to adapt 
her own to the plan of the author. She wanted something 
original. " After some farther effort," says Mrs. Davidson, 
" she came to me out of spirits and in tears. ' Mother,' said 
she, 'I must give it up after all.' I asked the reason, and 
then remarked that as she had already so many labors upon 
her hands, and was still feeble, it might be the wisest course. 
' mother,' said she, ' that is not the reason ; my head and 
my heart are full ; poetic images are crowding upon my brain, 
but every subject has been monopolized : " There is nothing 
new under the sun." ' I said, ' My daughter, that others have 
written upon a subject is not an objection. The most emi- 
nent writers do not always choose what is new.' ' Mother. 
dear mother, what can I say upon a theme which has been 
touched by the greatest men of this or some other age ? — I, 
a mere child ; it is absurd in me to think of it.' She dropped 
beside me on the sofa, laid her head upon my bosom, and 
sobbed violently. I Aviped the tears from her face, while my 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 253 

own were fast flowing, and strove to soothe the tumult of her 
mind. . . . When we were both more calm, I said, ' Margaret, 
I had hoped that during this winter you would not have com- 
menced or applied yourself to any important work ; but, if 
you feel in that way, I will not urge you to resign an occupa- 
tion which gives you such exquisite enjoyment.' " 

Mrs. Davidson then went on to show to her that, notwith- 
standing the number of poets that had written, the themes 
and materials for poetry are inexhaustible. By degrees Mar- 
garet became composed; took up a book and read. The 
words of her mother dwelt in her mind. In a few days she 
brought her mother the introduction to a projected poem to 
be called " Leonore." Mrs. Davidson was touched at finding 
the remarks she had made for the purpose of soothing the 
agitation of her daughter had served to kindle her imagina- 
tion,, and were poured forth with eloquence in those verses. 
The excitement continued and the poem of " Leonore " was 
completed, corrected, and copied into her book by the 1st 
of March; having written her plan in prose at full length, 
containing about the same number of lines as the poem. 
" During its progress," says Mrs. Davidson, " when fatigued 
with writing, she would take her kitten and recline upon the 
sofa, asking me to relate to her some of the scenes of the 
last war. Accordingly I would while away our solitude by 
repeating anecdotes of that period ; and before " Leonore " was 
completed she had advanced several pages in a prose tale, 
the scene of which was laid upon Lake Champlain during the 
last war. She at the same time executed faces and figures 
in crayon which would not have disgraced the pencil of an 
artist. Her labors were truly immense. Yet a stranger com- 
ing occasionally to the house would hardly observe that she 

had any pressing avocations." 

11 * 



2M MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The following are extracts from a rough draught of a letter 
written to Miss Sedgwick about this time : — 

My Dear Madam,— 

I wish I could express to you my pleasure on receiving 
your kind and affectionate letter. So far from considering 
myself neglected by your silence, I felt it a great privilege 
to be permitted to write to you, and knew that I ought not 
to expect a regular answer to every letter, even while I was 
longing, day after day, to receive this gratifying token of re- 
membrance. Unless you had witnessed, I fear you would 
hardly believe my extravagant delight on reading the dear 
little folded paper so expressive of your kind recollection. 
I positively danced for joy, bestowed a thousand caresses 
upon everybody and everything I loved, dreamed of you 
all night, and arose next morning (with a heart full) to an- 
swer your letter ; but was prevented by indisposition, and have 
not been able until now to perform a most pleasing duty by 
acknowledging its receipt. My health during the past winter 
has been much better than we had anticipated. It is true 
I have been, with dear mother, entirely confined to the house ; 
but being able to read, write, and perform all my usual em- 
ployments, I feel that I have much more reason to be thank- 
ful for the blessings continued to me, than to repine because 
a few have been denied. But spring is now here in name, 
if not in reality; and I can assure you my heart bounds at 
the thought of once more escaping from my confinement, 
and breathing the pure air of heaven, without fearing a 
blight or a consumption in every breeze. Spring ! What 
pleasure does that magic syllable convey to the heart of an 
invalid, laden with sweet promises, and bringing before his 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 255 

mind visions of liberty, which those who are always free can- 
not enjoy. Thus do I dream of summer I may never see, 
and make myself happy for hours in anticipating pleasures 
I may never share. It is an idle employment, and little cal- 
culated to sweeten disappointment. But it has opened to 
me many sources of delight otherwise unknown ; and when 
out of humor with the present, I have only to send fancy 
flower-gathering in the future, and I find myself fully repaid. 
Dear mother's health has also been much better than we had 
feared, and her ill turns less frequent and severe. She sits 
up most of the day, walks around the lower part of the house, 

and enjoys her book and her pen as much as ever 

You speak of your intercourse with Mrs. Jameson. It 
must indeed be an exquisite pleasure to be intimately asso- 
ciated with a mind like hers. I have never seen anything 
but extracts from her writings, but must obtain and read 
them. I suppose the world is anxiously looking for her next 
volume. . . . We have been reading Lockhart's " Life of 
Scott." Is it not a deeply interesting work ? In what a beau- 
tiful light it represents the character of that great and good 
man. No one can read his life or his works without loving 
and venerating him. As to " the waters of Helicon," we 
have but a few niggardly streams in this, our matter-of-fact 
village; and father in his medical capacity has forbiden my 
partaking of them as freely as I could wish. But no matter, 
they have been frozen up, and will flow in " streams more 
salubrious " beneath the milder sky of spring. 

In all her letters we find a solicitude about her mother's 
health, rather than about her own, and indeed it was difficult 
to say which was most precarious. 



2^6 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The following extract from a poem written about this time 
to " Her mother on her fiftieth Birthday," presents a beautiful 
portrait, and does honor to the filial hand that drew it : — 

" Yes, mother, fifty years have fled, 
With rapid footsteps, o'er thy head; 
Have past, with all their motley train, 
And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
How many smiles and sighs and tears, 
How many hopes and doubts and fears 
Have vanished with that lapse of years. 

Oh, that we all could look, like thee, 
Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
And 'mid its varied records find 
A heart at ease with all mankind, 
A firm and self-approving mind. 
Grief that had broken hearts less fine 
Hath only served to strengthen thine; 

Time, that doth chill the fancy's play, 
Hath kindled thine with purer ray; 
And stern disease, whose icy dart 
Hath power to chill the breaking heart, 
Hath left thine warm with love and truth 
As in the halcyon days of youth." 

The following letter was written on the 26th of March, to a 
female cousin resident in New York : — 
Dear Kate, — 

This day I am fifteen, and you can, you will readily pardon 
and account for the absurd flights of my pen, by supposing 
that my tutelary spirits, Nonsense and Folly, have assembled 
around the being of their creation, and claimed the day as 
exclusively their own ; then I pray you to lay to their ac- 
count all that I have already scribbled, and believe that, un- 
influenced by these grinning deities, I can thirk and feel 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 257 

and love, as I love you, with all warmth and sincerity of heart. 
Do you remember how we used to look forward to sweet fif- 
teen, as the pinnacle of human happiness, the golden age o*f 
existence ? You have but lately passed that milestone in the 
highway of life ; I have just reached it, but I find myself no 
better satisfied to stand still than before, and look forward to 
the continuance of my journey with the same ardent longing 
I felt at fourteen. 

Ah, Kate, here we are, two young travellers, starting forth 
upon our long pilgrimage, and knowing not whither it may con- 
duct us ! You some months my superior in age, and many years 
in acquaintance with society, in external attractions, and all 
those accomplishments necessary to form an elegant woman. 
7, knowing nothing of life but from books, and a stnall circle 
of friends, who love me as I love them ; looking upon the past 
as a faded dream, which I shall have time enough to study 
and expound, when old age and sorrow come on; upon the 
'present as a nurseling, — a preparative for the future ; and upon 
that future, as what ? a mighty whirlpool, of hopes and fears, 
of bright anticipations and bitter disappointments, into which 
I shall soon plunge, and find there, in common with the rest 
of the world, my happiness or misery 

The following, to a young friend, was also written on the 
26th of March: — 

Mr Dear H.,~ 

You must know that winter has come and gone, and nei- 
ther mother nor myself have felt a single breeze which could 
not force its way through the thick walls of our little dwell- 
ing. Do you not think I am looking gladly forward to April 
and May, as the lovely sisters who are to unlock the doors 



258 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of our prison-house, and give us once more to the free en- 
joyment of Nature, without fearing a blight or a consump- 
tion in every breath ? And now for another, and even more 
delightful anticipation — your visit ! Are you indeed coming ? 
And when are you coming ? Do answer the first, that I may 
for once have the pleasure of framing delightful visions without 
finding them dashed to the ground by the iron hand of Reality, 
and the last, that I may not expect you too soon, and thus 
subject myself to all the bitterness of " hope deferred." Come, 
for I have so much to say to you, that I cannot possibly con- 
tain it until summer ; and come quickly, unless you are willing 
to account for my wasted time as well as your own, for I shall 
do little else but dream of you and your visit until the time 
of your arrival. You cannot image how those few words in 
your little good for nothing letter have completely upset my 
wonted gravity. Do not disappoint me. It is true, mother and 
I are both feeble and unable to go out with you and show you 
the lions of our little village, but if warm welcomes can atone 
for the want of ceremony, you shall have them in abundance ; 
but it seems to me that I shall want to pin you down in a chair, 
and do nothing but look at you from morning till night. As to 
coming to Plattsburg, I think if we cannot do so in the spring, 
(which is doubtful,) we certainly shall in the course of the 
summer. Brother M. wrote to me yesterday, saying that he 
would spend the month of August in the country, and if noth- 
ing occurred to prevent, we would take our delightful trip by 
the way of Lake George. Oh, it will be so pleasant ! but my 
anticipations are now all bent upon a nearer object. Do not 
allow a slight impediment to destroy them. We expect in May 
to move to Saratoga. We shall then have a more convenient 
house, better society, and the benefit of a school in whi^h I can 






MARGARET DAVIDSON. 259 

practise music and drawing, without being obliged to attend 
regularly. We shall then be a few miles nearer to you, and at 
present even that seems something desirable to me. I have 
read and own three volumes of " Scott's Life," and was much 
disappointed to find that it was not finished in these three, but 
concluded the remainder had not yet come out. Are the five 
volumes all ? It is indeed a deeply interesting work. I am 
very fond of biography, for surelythere can be nothing more 
delightful or instructive than to trace in the infancy and youth 
of every noble mind the germs of its future greatness. Have 
you read a work called " Letters from Palmyra," by Mr. Ware 
of New York ? I have not yet seen it, but intend to do so 
soon. It is written in the character of a citizen of Rome at 
that early period, and it is said to be a lively picture of the 
manners and customs of the Imperial City, and still more of 
the magnificence of Palmyra and its splendid queen, Zenobia. 
It also contains a beautiful story. I have lately been re-pe- 
rusing many of Scott's novels, and intend to finish them. Was 
ever anything half so fascinating ? Oh, how I long to have you 
here and tell you all these little things in person. Do write 
to me immediately, and tell me when we may expect you. I 
shall open your next with a beating heart. Do excuse all the 
blunders and scrawls of this hasty letter. You must receive it 
as a proof of friendship, for to a stranger, or one who I thought 
would look upon it with a cold and critical eye, I certainly 
should not send it. I believe you and I have entered into a 
tacit agreement to forgive any little mistakes which the other 
may chance to commit. 

! Croyez moi ma chere amie votre. Marguerite. 

The spirits of this most sensitive little being became more 



260 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

and more excited with the opening of spring. " She watched," 
says her mother, " the putting forth of the tender grass and the 
young blossoms as the period which was to liberate her from 
captivity. She was pleased with everybody and everything. 
She loved everything in Nature, both animate and inanimate, 
with a warmth of affection, which displayed the benevolence 
of her own heart. She felt that she was well, and oh ! the 
bright dreams and imaginings, the cloudless future, presented 
to her ardent mind — all was sunny and gay." 

The following letter is highly expressive of the state of her 
feelings at that period. 

" A few days since, my dearest cousin, I received your affec- 
tionate letter, and if my heart smote me at the sight of the 
well-known superscription, you may imagine how unmercifully 
it thumped on reading a letter so full of affection, and so en- 
tirely devoid of reproach for my unkindly negligence. I can 
assure you, my dear coz., you could have found no better way 
of striking home to my heart the conviction of my error ; and 
I resolved that hour, that moment, to lay my confessions at 
your feet, and sue for forgiveness ; I knew you were too gentle 
to refuse. But alas for human resolves ! We were that 
afternoon expecting brother M, Dear brother ! And how 
could I collect my floating thoughts and curl myself up into 
a corner with pen, ink, and paper before me, when my heart 
was flying away over the sand-hills of this unromantic region 
to meet and embrace and welcome home the wanderer. If it 
can interest you, picture to yourself the little scene, — mother 
and I breathless with expectation, gazing from the window, in 
mute suspense, and listening to the " phiz, phiz " of the great 
steam-engine. Then when we caught a rapid glance of his 
trim little figure, how we bounded away over chairs, sofas, and 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 261 

kittens, to bestow in reality the greeting fancy had so often 
given him. Oh ! what is so delightful as to welcome a friend ! 
Well, three days have passed like a dream, and he is gone 
again. I am seated at my little table by the fire. Mother is 
sewing beside me. Puss is slumbering on the hearth, and 
nothing external remains to convince us of the truth of that 
bright sunbeam which had suddenly broken upon our quiet 
retreat, and departed like a vision as suddenly. When shall 
we have the pleasure of welcoming you thus, my beloved 
cousin ? Your flying call of last summer was but an aggrava- 
tion. Oh ! may all good angels watch over you and all you love, 
shake the dew of health from their balmy wings upon your 
smiling home, and waft you hither, cheerful and happy, to 
sojourn awhile with the friends who love you so dearly ! All 
hail to spring, the bright, the blooming, the renovating spring ! 
Oh ! I am so happy — I feel a lightness at my heart and a 
vigor in my frame that I have rarely felt. If I speak, my 
voice forms itself into a laugh. If I look forward, everything 
seems bright before me. If I look back, memory calls up what 
is pleasant, and my greatest desire is that my pen could fling 
a ray of sunshine over this scribbled page and infuse into your 
heart some of the cheerfulness of my own. I have been con- 
fined to the house all winter, as it . was thought the best and 
only way of restoring my health. Now my symptoms are all bet- 
ter, and I am looking forward to next month and its blue skies 
with the most childish impatience. By the way, I am not to 
be called a child any more ; for yesterday I was fifteen! what 
say you to that ? I feel quite like an old woman, and think 
of putting on caps and spectacles next month." 

It was during the same exuberance of happy feeling, with 
the delusive idea of confirmed health and the anticipation 



'2G2 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of bnght enjoyments, that she broke forth like a bird into 
the following strain of melody : — 

" Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy, 
With a rapture too full to express ; 
From within and without I am blest, 
And the world, like myself, I would blesi. 

All Nature looks fair to my eye, 

From beneath and around and above, 
Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, 

And the broad earth is glowing with love. 

I stand on the threshold of life, 

On the shore of its wide rolling sea; 
I have heard of its storms and its strife, 

But all things are tranquil to me. 

There 's a veil o'er the future — 't is bright 

As the wing of a spirit of air, 
And each form of enchantment and light 

Is trembling in iris-hues there. 

I turn to the world of affection, 

And Avarm, glowing treasures are mine ; 
To the past, and my fond recollection 

Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 

But oh, there 's a fountain of joy 

More rich than a kingdom beside, 
It is holy — death cannot destroy 

The flow of its heavenly tide. 

'T is the love that is gushing within, 

It would bathe the whole world in its light} 

The cold stream of time shall not quench it, 
The dark frown of woe shall not blight. 

These visions of pleasure may vanish, 

These bright dreams of youth disappear, 
Disappointment each air hue may banish. 

And drown each frail joy in a tear. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 263 

I may plunge in the billows of life, 

I may taste of its dark cup of woe, 
I may weep, and the sad drops of grief 

May blend with the waves as they flow. 

I may dream, till reality's shadow 

O'er the light form of fancy is cast; 
I may hope, until hope, too, despairing, 

Has crept — to the grave of the Past. 

But though the wild waters surround me, 

Misfortune, temptation, and sin, 
Though Fear be about and beyond me 

And Sorrow's dark shadow within. 

Though Age, with an icy cold finger, 

May stamp his pale seal on my brow — 
Still, still in my bosom shall linger 

The glow that is warming it now. 

Youth will vanish, and Pleasure, gay charmer, 

May depart on the wings of to-day, 
But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer, 

As year after year rolls away." 

" While her spirits were thus light and gay," says Mrs. Da- 
vidson, " from the prospect of returning health, my more ma- 
ture judgment told me that those appearances might be decep- 
tive — that even now the destroyer might be making sure his 
work of destruction ; but she really seemed better ; the cough 
had subsided, her step was buoyant, her face glowed with 
animation, her eye was bright, and love, boundless, universal 
love, seemed to fill her young heart. Every symptom of her 
disease assumed a more favorable cast. Oh, how my heart 
swelled with the mingled emotions of hope, doubt, and grati- 
tude. Our hopes of her ultimate recovery seemed to be 
founded upon reason, yet her father still doubted the pro- 
priety of our return to Lake Champlain ; and as Saratoga 



-64 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

held out many more advantages than Ballston as a temporary 
residence, he decided to spend the ensuing year or two there ; 
and then we might perhaps, without much risk, return to 
our much-loved and long-deserted home on the banks of the 
Saranac. Accordingly a house was taken and every prepara- 
tion made for our removal to Saratoga on the first of May. 
Margaret was pleased with the arrangement." 

The following playful extract of a letter to her brother 
in New York, exhibits her feelings on the prospect of their 
change of residence : — 

"I now most humbly avail myself of your most gracious 
permission to scribble you a few lines in token of my ever- 
lasting love. ' This is to inform you I am very well, hoping 
these few lines will find you in possession of the same bless- 
ing ' — notwithstanding the blue streaks that flitted over your 
pathway a few days after you left us. Perhaps it was occa- 
sioned by remorse at the cruelty of your parting speech, per- 
haps it was the reflection of a bright blue eye upon the deep 
waters of your soul; but let the cause be what it may, — 
' black spirits or white, blue spirits or gray,' — I hope the 
effect has entirely disappeared, and you are no longer tinged 
with its most doleful shadow. A blue sky, a blue eye, or the 
blue dye of the violet, are all undeniably beautiful, but this 
tint when transferred from the works of Nature to the brow 
of man, or the stockings of woman, becomes a thing to ridi- 
cule or weep at. May your spirits henceforth, my dear brother, 
be preserved from this ill-omened influence, and may your 
feet and ankles never be graced with garments of a hue so 
repulsive. brother, we are all in the heat of moving ; 
we, I say ; you will account for the use of that personal pro- 
noun on the authority of the old proverb, ' What a dust we 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 2G5 

flies raise,' for, to be frank with you, I have little or nothing 
to do with it, but poor mother is over head and ears in boxes, 
bedclothes, carpets, straw, and discussions. Our hall is already 
filled with the fruits of her labors and perseverance, in the 
shape of certain blue chests, carpet-cases, trunks, boxes, &c, 
all ready for a move. Dear mother is head, hand, and feet 
for the whole machine; our two helps being nothing but 
cranks, which turn when you touch them, and cease their 
rotary movement when the force is withdrawn. Heigho. We 

miss our good C , with her quick invention and helpful 

hand my dear brother, I am anticipating 

so much pleasure next summer, I hope it will not all prove 
a dream. It will be so delightful when you come up in Au- 
gust and bring cousin K with you ; tell her I am calcu- 
lating upon this pleasure with all my powers of fore- enjoy- 
ment — tell her also that I am waiting most impatiently for 
that annihilating letter of hers, and if it does not come soon, 
I shall send her another cannonade, ere she has recovered 
the stunning effects of the first. Oh dear! I have written 
you a most dis-understandable letter, and now you must ex- 
cuse me, as I have declared war against M , and after 

mending my pen, must collect all my scattered ideas into a 
fleet, and launch them for a combat upon a whole sea of ink." 
" The exuberance of her spirit," says her mother, " as the 
spring advanced, and she was enabled once more to take 
exercise in the open air, displayed itself in everything. Her 
heart was overflowing with thankfulness and love. Ever; 
fine day in the latter part of April she either rode on horse 
back or drove out in a carriage. All Nature looked lovely to 
her ; not a tree or shrub but conveyed some poetical image 
or moral lesson to her mind. The moment, however, that she 



'2£>Q MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

began to take daily exercise in the open air, I again heard 
with agony the prophetic cough. I felt that all was over !• 
She thought that she had laken cold, and our friends were 
of the same opinion. ' It was a slight cold which would van- 
ish beneath the mild influence of spring.' I, however, feared 
that her father's hopes might have blinded his judgment, and 
upon my own responsibility consulted a skilful physician, 
who had on many former occasions attended her. She was 
not aware of my present alarm, or that the physician was now 
consulted. He managed in a playful manner to feel her pulse, 
without her suspicions. After he had left the room, * Madam,' 
said he, ' it is useless to hold out any false hopes ; your daugh- 
ter has a seated consumption, which is, I fear, beyond the 
reach of medical skill. There is no hope in the case ; make 
her as happy and as comfortable as you can ; let her enjoy 
riding in pleasant weather, but her walks must be given up ; 
walking is too great an exertion for her.' With an aching 
heart I returned to the lovely unconscious victim, and found 
her tying on her hat for a ramble. I gently tried to dissuade 
her from going. She caught my eye, and read there a tale 
of grief, which she could not understand, and I could not 
explain. As soon as I dared trust my voice, I said, ' My dear 
Margaret, nothing has happened, only I have just been speak- 
ing with Dr. , respecting you, and he advises that you 

give up walking altogether. Knowing how much you enjoy 
it, I am pained to mention this, for I know that it will be a 
great privation.' ' Why, mamma,' she exclaimed, ; this cold 
is wearing off; may I not walk then?' 'The Doctor thinks 
you should make no exertion of that kind, but riding in fine 
weather may have a happy effect.' She stood and gazed upon 
my face long and earnestly ; then untied her hat and sat down, 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 267 

apparently ruminating upon what had past; she asked no 
questions, but an expression of thoughtfulness clouded her 
brow during the rest of the day. It was settled that she 
was to ride out in fine weather, but not to walk out at all, and 
in a day or two she seemed to have forgotten the circum- 
stance altogether. The return of the cough and profuse 
night-perspirations too plainly told me her doom ; but I still 
clung to the hope, that, as she suffered no pain, she might, 
by tender, judicious treatment, continue yet for years. I urged 
her to remit her labors ; she saw how much my heart was in 
the request, and promised to comply with my wishes. On 
the first of May we removed to Saratoga. One short half 
hour in the railroad car completed the journey, and she ar- 
rived, fresh, cheerful, and blooming, in her appearance, such 
an effect had the excitement of pleasure upon her lovely 
face." 

On the day we left Ballston she wrote a " Parting Word " to 
Mrs. H., who had been one of our most intimate and affection- 
ate vistors throughout the winter, and whose husband had 
assisted her much in her studies of moral philosophy, as well 
as delighted her by his varied and instructive conversation. 

A PARTING WORD TO MY DEAR MRS. H. 

Ballston Spa, April 30, 1838. 
At length the awful morn hath come. 

The parting hour is nigh, 
And I sit down 'mid dust and gloom, 

To bid you brief " good-bye." 

Each voice to fancy's listening ear 

Repeats the doleful cry, 
And the bare walls and sanded floor 

Reecho back " good-bye." 



268 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

So must it be ! but many a thought 
Comes crowding on my mind, 

Of the dear friends, the happy hours, 
The joys we leave behind. 

How we shall miss your cheerful face, 
Forever bright and smiling, 

And your sweet voice so often heard, 
Our weary hours beguiling! 

How shall we miss the kindly hearts, 
Which none can know unloving, 

Whose thoughts and feelings none can read* 
Nor find his own improving ! 

And he, Avhose converse, hour by hour, 
Hath lent old Time new pinions, 

Whose hand hath drawn the shadowy veil 
From Wisdom's broad dominions. 

Whose voice hath poured forth priceless 
Scarce conscious that he taught, 

Whose mind of broad, of loftiest reach, 
Hath showered down thought on thought. 

True, we may meet with many a dear 
And cherished friend, but yet 

Oft shall we cast a backward glance 
Of wistful — vain regret. 

When evening spreads her sombre veil, 
To fold the slumbering earth, 

When our small circle closes round 
The humble, social hearth, — 

Oft shall we dream of hours gone by, 
And con these moments o'er, 

Till we half bend our ears to catch 
Your footsteps at the door. 

And then turn back and sigh to think 
We hear those steps no more ! 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 26U 

But though these dismal thoughts arise. 

Hope makes me happy stL.; 
There is a drop of comfort lurks 

In every draught of ill ! 

By pain and care each joy of earth 

More exquisite is made, 
And when we meet the parting grief 

Shall doubly be o'erpaid. 

In disappointments deep too quick 

Our fairest prospects drown ; 
Let not this hope, which blooms so bright, 

Be withered at his frown ! 

Come, and a mother's pallid cheek 

Shall brighten at your smile, 
And her poor frame, so faint and weak, 

Forget its pains the while. 

Come, and a glad and happy heart 

Shall give the welcome kiss, 
And puss shall purr, and frisk, and mew, 

In token of her bliss. 

Come ! and behold how I improve 

In dusting — cleaning — sweeping, 
And I will hear, with patient ear, 

Your lectures on house-keeping. 

And now, may all good angels guard 

Your path where'er it lie, 
May peace reign monarch in our breast, 

And gladness in your eye. 

And may the dews of health descend, 

On him you cherish best, 
To his worn frame their influence lend, 

And calm each nerve to rest ! 



And may we meet again ! nor feel 
The parting hour so nigh; 



270 MARGARET DAVIDSON 

• Peace, love, and happiness to all, 

Once more — once more " good-bye ! M 

" She interested herself," continued Mrs. Davidson, " more 
than I had anticipated in the arrangement of our new habi- 
tation and in forming plans of future enjoyment with our 
friends, when they should visit us ; I exerted myself to please 
her taste in everything, although she was prohibited from mak- 
ing the slightest physical exertion herself. The house settled, 
then came the flower-garden, in which she spent more time 
than I thought prudent ; but she was so happy while thus en- 
gaged and the weather being fine, and the gardener disposed 
to gratify her and carry all her little plans into effect, I, like a 
weak mother, wanted resolution to interfere, and have always 
reproached myself for it, although not conscious that it was an 
injury at the time. Her brother had invited her to return to 
New York with him when he came to visit us in June, and she 
was now impatiently counting the days until his arrival. Her 
feelings are portrayed in a letter to her young friend H." 

Saratoga, June 1, 1838. 
June is at last with us, my dear cousin, and the blue-eyed 
goddess could not have looked upon the green bosom of her 
mother earth, attired in a lovelier or more enchanting robe. I 
am seated by an open window, and the breeze, laden with the 
perfumes of the blossoms and opening leaves, just lifts the edge 
of my sheet, and steals with the gentlest footsteps imaginable to 
fan my cheek and forehead. The grass, tinged with the deepest 
and freshest green, is waving beneath its influence ; the birds 
are singing their sweetest songs ; and as I look into the depths 
>»f the clear blue sky the rich tints appear to flit higher and 
higher as I gaze, till my eye seems searching into immeasurable 



MAl.ofARET DAVIDSON. 271 

distance. Oh ! such a day as this, it is a luxury to breathe. I 
feel as if I could frisk and gambol like my kitten from the mere 
consciousness of life. Yet with all the loveliness around me I 
re-peruse your letter, and long for wings to fly from it all to the 
dull atmosphere and crowded highways of the city. Yes ! I 
could then look into your eyes and I should forget the blue 
sky ; and your smile and your voice would doubly compensate 
me for the loss of green trees and singing birds. There are 
green trees in the heart which shed a softer perfume, and birds 
which sing more sweetly. " Nonsense, Mag is growing sen- 
timental ; " I knew you would say so, but the streak came across 
me, and you have it at full length. In plainer terms, how 
delighted, how more than delighted I shall be when I do 
come ! when I do come, Kate ! oh ! oh ! oh ! what would our 
language be without interjections, those expressive parts of 
speech which say so much in so small a compass. Now I am 
sure you can understand from these three syllables all the 
pleasure, the rapture I anticipate ; the meeting, the parting, 
all the component parts of that great whole which I denomi- 
nate a visit to New York ! No, not to New York ! but to the 
few dear friends whose society will afford me all the enjoyment 
I expect or desire, and who, in fact, constitute all my New 
York. 

June 2. I had written thus far, dear Kate, when I was most 
agreeably interrupted by a proposal for a ride on horseback ; 
my sheet slid of itself into the open drawer, my hat and dress 
flew on as if by instinct, and in ten minutes I was galloping 
full speed through the streets of our little village, with father 
by my side. I rode till nearly tea-time, and came home tired, 
tired, tired. Oh, I ache to think of it. My poor letter slept all 
'iight as soundly as its writer, but now that another day has 



272 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

dawned the very opposite of its predecessor, damp, dark, and 
rainy, I have drawn it forth from its receptacle, and seek to 
dissipate all outward gloom, by communing with one the 
thought of whom conveys to my mind anything but mel- 
ancholy. Kate, Kate, in spite of your disinterested and 
sober advice to the contrary, I shall come, I shall soon come, 
just as soon as M. can and will run up for me. Yet perhaps 
in the end I shall be disappointed. My happy anticipations 
resemble the cloudless sky of yesterday, and who knows but a 
stormy to-morrow may erase the brilliant tints of hope as well 

as those of Nature ? Do write quickly and tell me if 

I am to prepare. If you continue to feel as when you last wrote 
and still advise me not to come, I shall dispose of your ad- 
vice in the most approved manner, throw it to the winds, and 
embark armed and equipped for your city to make my destined 
visit, and fulfil its conditions by fair means or foul, and bring 
you home in triumph. Oh ! we shall have fine times. Oh, 
dear, I blush, to look back upon my sheet and see so many I's 
in it. 

" The time of her brother's coming drew near. He would be 
with us at 9 in the morning. At 11 they were to start. I 
prepared all for her departure with my own hand, lest, should 
I trust it to a domestic to make the arrangements, she would 
make some exertion herself. She sat by me whilst thus en- 
gaged, relating playful anecdotes until I urged her to retire for 
the night. On going into her room an hour or two afterwards, 
I was alarmed to find her in a high fever. About midnight 
she was taken with bleeding at the lungs. I flew to her father, 
and in a few minutes a vein was opened in her arm. To de- 
scribe our feelings at this jucture is impossible. We stood. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 273 

gazing at each other in mute despair. After that shock had 
subsided her father retired, and I seated myself by the bedside 
to watch her slumbers, and the rising sun found me still at my 
post. She awoke, pale, feeble, and exhausted by the debil- 
itating perspiration which attended her sleep. She was sur- 
prised to find that I had not been in bed; but when she 
attempted to speak I laid my finger upon her lips and desired 
her to be silent. She understood my motive, and when I bent 
my head to kiss her, I saw a tear upon her cheek. I told her 
the necessity of perfect quiet, and the danger which would re- 
sult from agitation. Before her brother came she desired to 
rise. I assisted her to do so, and he found her quietly seated 
in her easy-chair, perfectly composed in manner, and deter- 
mined not to increase her difficulties by giving way to feelings 
which must at that time have oppressed her heart. My son 
was greatly shocked to find her in this state. I met him and 
urged the importance of perfect self-possession on his part, as 
any sudden agitation might in her present alarming state be 
fatal. Poor fellow ! he subdued his feelings and met her with 
a cheerful smile which concealed a heart almost bursting with 
sorrow. The propriety of her taking this jaunt had been dis- 
cussed by her father and myself for a number of weeks. We 
both thought her too ill to leave home, but her strong desire to 
go, the impression she had imbibed that travelling would 
greatly benefit her health, and the pleading of friends in her 
behalf, on the ground that disappointment would have a more 
unfavorable effect than the journey possibly could have, all 
had their effect in leading us to consent. It was possible it 
might be of use to her, although it was at best an experiment 
of a doubtful nature. But this attack was decisive ; yet cau- 
tion must be used in breaking the matter to her in her present 



274 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

weak state. Her brother stayed a day or two with us, and 
then returned, telling her that when she was able to perforin 
the journey, he would come again and take her with him. 
After he left us, she soon regained her usual strength, and in 
a fortnight her brother returned and took her to New York." 

The anxiety of Mrs. Davidson was intense until she received 
her first letter. It was written from New York, and in a 
cheerful vein, speaking encouragingly of her health, but show- 
ing more solicitude about the health and well-being,- of her 
mother than of her own. She continued to write frequently, 
gi ting animated accounts of scenes and persons. 

The following extract relates to an excursion, in company 
with two of her brothers, into Westchester County, one of the 
pleasantest, and, until recently, the least fashionably known, 
regions on the banks of the Hudson. 

" At 3 o'clock we were in the Singsing steamer, with the 
water sparkling below, and the sun broiling overhead. In 
the course of our sail a huge thunder-cloud arose, and I re- 
treated, quite terrified, to the cabin. But it proved a refreshing 
shower. Oh ! how sweet, how delightful the air was. When 
we landed at the dock, everything looked so fresh and green ! 
We mounted into a real country vehicle, and rattled up the 
hill to the village inn, a quiet, pleasant little house. I was 
immediately shown to my room, where I stayed until tea-time, 
enjoying the prospect of a splendid sunset upon the moun- 
tains, and resting after the fatigues of the day. At 7 we 
drank tea, a meal strongly contrasted with the fashionable, 
meagre unsocial city tea. The table was crowded with every- 
thing good, in the most bountiful style, and served with the 
greatest attention by the landlord's pretty daughter. I retired 
soon after tea, and slept soundly until daybreak. After break- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 275 

fast we sent for a carriage to take us along the course of the 
Croton, to see the famous water-works ; but, to our disappoint- 
ment, every carriage was engaged, and we could not go. In 
the afternoon a party was made up to go in a boat across the 
river, and ascend a mountain to a singular lake upon its summit, 
where all the implements of fishing were provided, and a col- 
lation was prepared. In short, it was a picnic. To this we 
were invited, but on learning they would not return until 9 
or 10 in the evening, that scheme also was abandoned. To- 
wards night we walked around the village, looked at the tunnel, 
and visited the ice-cream man ; and in spite of my various dis- 
appointments, I retired quite happy and pleased with my visit. 
The next day was Sunday, and we proposed going to the little 
Dutch church, a few miles distant, and hearing the service 
performed in Dutch ; but lo ! on drawing aside my curtains in 
the morning it rained, and we were obliged to content ourselves 
as well as we could until the rain was over. After dinner the 
sun again peeped out, as if for our especial gratification, and 
in a few minutes a huge country wagon, with a leathern top 
and two sleek horses, drew up to the door. We mounted into 
it, and away we rattled over the most beautiful country I ever 
saw. Oh ! it was magnificent ! Every now and then the view 
of the broad Hudson, with its distant hills, and the clouds rest- 
ing 0:1 their summits, burst upon our view. Now we would as- 
cend a lofty hill, clothed with forests and verdure of the most 
brilliant hues ; now dash down into a deep ravine, with a 
stream winding and gurgling along its bed, with its tiny waves 
rushing over the wheel of some rustic mill, embosomed in its 
shade and solitude. Every now and then the gable-end of 
some low Dutch building would present itself before us, smil- 
ing in its peaceful stillness, and conveying to the mind a per- 



276 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

feet picture of rural simplicity and comfort, although, perhaps^ 
of ignorance. At length we paused upon the summit of a gen- 
tle hill, and judge of my delight when I beheld below me the 
old Dutch church, the quiet, secluded, beautiful little church- 
yard, the running stream, the path, and the rastic bridge, the 
ever-memorable scene of Ichabod's adventure with the headless 
horseman. There, thought I, rushed the poor pedagogue, his 
knees cramped up to his saddle-bow with fear, his hands grasp- 
ing his horse's mane, with convulsive energy, in the hope that 
the rising stream might arrest the progress of his fearful pur- 
suer, and allow him to pass in safety. Vain hope ! Scarce 
had he reached the bridge when he heard, rattling behind him, 
the hoofs of his fiendish companion. The church seemed in 
a blaze to his bewildered eyes, and urging on, on, he turned 
to look once more, when, horror of horrors ! the head, the 
fearful head, was in the act of descending upon his devoted 
shoulders. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I never laughed so in my life. 
Well, we rode on through the scene of poor Andre's capture, 
and dashed along the classic valleys of Sleepy Hollow. After 
a long and delightful drive, we returned in time for tea. After 
tea we were invited into Mrs. F.'s parlor, where, after a short 
time, were collected quite a party of ladies and gentlemen. At 
9 we were served with ice-cream, wine, &c. I retired very much 
pleased and very much fatigued. Early in the morning we 
rose with a most brilliant sun, breakfasted, mounted once more 
into the wagon, and rattled off to the dock. Oh ! that I couW 
describe to you how fresh and sweet the air was. I felt as if 
I wanted to open my mouth wide and inhale it. We gave M. 
our parting kisses, and soon found ourselves once more, after 
this charming episode, approaching the mighty city. We had 
a delightful sail of two or three hours, and again rode up to 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 277 

dear aunt M.'s, where all seemed glad at my return. I spent 
the remainder of the day in resting and reading." 

" In these artless epistles," continues Mrs. Davidson, " there 
is much of character; for who could imagine this constant cheer- 
fulness, this almost forgetfulness of self, these affectionate en- 
deavors, by her sweetly playful account of all her employments 
while absent, to dispel the grief which she knew was preying 
upon my mind on account of her illness. Who could conceive 
the pains she took to conceal from me the ravages which dis- 
ease was daily making upon her form. She was never heard 
to complain, and in her letters to me she hardly alludes to her 
illness. The friends to whom I had entrusted her, during her 
short period of absence, sometimes feared that she would never 
be able to reach home again. Her brother told me, but not 
until long after her return, that on her way home she really 
fainted several times from debility, and that he took her 
from the boat to the carriage as he would have done an in- 
fant. 

" On the 6th of July I once more folded to my heart this 
cherished object of my solicitude, but oh, the change which three 
short weeks had wrought in her appearance struck me forci- 
bly. I was so wholly unprepared for it that I nearly fainted. 
After the excitement of the meeting, (which she had evidently 
summoned all her fortitude to bear with composure) was over, 
she sat down by me, and passing her thin arm around my 
waist, said, ' my dear mamma, I am home again at last ; I 
now feel as if I never wanted to leave you again ; I have had 
a delightful visit, my friends were all glad to see me, and have 
watched over me with all the kindness and care which affec- 
tion could dictate ; but oh, there is no place like home, and no 

care Hk* a mother's care ; there is something in the very air 

12* 



\ 



278 MARGAEET DAVIDSON. 

of home and in the sound of your voice, mother, which makes 
me happier just now than all the scenes which I have passed 
through in my little-jannt ; oh, after all, home is the only place 
for a person as much out of health as I am.' I strove to sup- 
port my emotions, while I marked her pale cheek and altered 
countenance. She fixed her penetrating eyes upon my face, 
kissed me, and drawing back to take a more full survey of the 
effects which pain and anxiety had wrought in me, kissed me 
again and again, saying, ' she knew I had deeply felt the want 
of her society, and now once more at home, she should so prize 
its comforts as to be in no haste to leave it again.' She was 
much wasted, and could hardly walk from one room to an- 
other ; her cough was very distressing ; she had no pain, but a 
languor and a depression of spirits, foreign to her nature 
She struggled against this debility, and called up all the ener 
gies of her mind to overcome it ; her constant reply to inquiries 
about her health, by the friends who called, was the same as 
formerly, ' Well, quite well — mother calls me an invalid, but 
I feel well.' Yet to me, when alone, she talked more freely 
of her symptoms, and I thought I could discern from her man- 
ner, that she had apprehensions as to the result. I had often 
endeavored to acquire firmness sufficient to tell her what was 
her situation, but she seemed so studiously to avoid the dis- 
closure, that my resolution had hitherto been unequal to the 
task. But I was much surprised one clay, not long after her 
return from New York, by her asking me to tell her without 
reserve my opinion of her state ; the question wrung my very 
heart. I was wholly unprepared for it, and it was put in so 
solemn a manner that I could not evade it, were I disposed to 
do so. I knew with what strong affection she clung to life 
and the objects and friends which endeared it to her ; I knew 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 279 

how bright the world upon which she was just entering ap- 
peared to her young fancy, what glowing pictures she had 
drawn of future usefulness and happiness. I was now called 
upon at one blow to crush these hopes, to destroy the delight- 
ful visions which had hovered around her from her cradle 
until this very period ; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive 
her ; in vain I attempted a reply to her direct and solemn ap- 
peal, and my voice grew husky ; several times I essayed to 
speak, but the words died away on my lips ; I could only fold 
her to my heart in silence, imprint a kiss upon her forehead, 
and leave the room to avoid agitating her with feelings I had 
no power to repress. 

" The following extract from a letter to her brother in New 
York, dated a short time after this incident occurred, and which 
I never saw until after her departure, will best portray her 
own feelings at this period." 

" ' As to my health at present, I feel as well as when you 
were here, and the cough is much abated ; but it is evident to 
me that mother thinks me not so well as before I left home ; 
I do not myself believe that I have gained anything from the 
visit, and in a case like mine, standing still is certainly loss, 
but I feel no worse. However, I have learned that feelings 
are no criterion of disease. Now, brother, I want to know 

what Dr. M discovered, or thought he discovered, in his 

examination of my lungs ; father says nothing — mother, when 
I ask, cannot tell me, and looks so sad ! Now I ask you, 
hoping to be answered. If you have not heard the Doctor say, 
I wish you would ask him, and write to me. If it is more un- 
favorable than I anticipate, it is best I should know now ; if it 
is the contrary, how much pain and restlessness and suspicion 
will be spared me by the knowledge. As to myself, I feel 



280 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

and know that my health is in a most precarious s„ate, that 
the disease we dread has perhaps fastened upon me ; but I 
have an impression that if I make use of the proper rem- 
edies and exercise, I may yet recover a tolerable degree of 
health. I do not feel that my case is incurable ; I wish to 
know if I am wrong. I have rode on horseback twice since 
you left me ; dear, dear brother, what a long egotistic letter 
I have written you ; do forgive me ; my heart was full, and I felt 
that I must unburden it. I wish you would write me a long 
letter. Do not let mother know at present the questions I 

have asked you.' " 

" From this period she grew more thoughtful. There was 
even a solemnity in her manner which I never before ob- 
served. Her mind, as I mentioned before, had been much 
perplexed by some doctrinal points. To solve these doubts, 
I asked if I should not send for some clergyman. She said 
no. She had heard many discussions on these subjects, and 
they had always served rather to confuse than to convince 
her. ' I would rather converse with you alone, mother.' 
She then asked me if I thought it essential to salvation that 
she should adopt any particular creed. I felt that I was an 
inefficient, perhaps a blind guide, yet it was my duty not only 
to impart consolation, but to explain to her my own views of 
the truth. I replied that I considered faith and repentance 
only to be essential to salvation ; that it was very desirable 
that her mind should be settled upon some particular mode 
of faith ; but that I did not think it absolutely necessary that 
she should adopt the tenets of any established church, and 
again recommended an attentive perusal of the New Testa- 
ment. She expressed her firm belief in the divinity of Christ. 
The perfections of his character, its beauty and holiness ex- 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 281 

cited her admiration, while the benevolence which prompted 
the sacrifice of himself to save a lost world filled her with 
the most enthusiastic gratitude. It was a source of regret 
that so much of her time had been spent in light reading, 
and that her writings had not been of a more decidedly re- 
ligious character. She lamented that she had not chosen 
Scriptural subjects for the exercise of her poetical talent, 
and said, 'Mamma, should God spare my life, my time and 
talents shall for the future be devoted to a higher and holier 
end.' She felt that she had trifled with the gifts of Provi- 
dence, and her self-condemnation and grief were truly affect- 
ing. < And must I die so young ! — my career of usefulness 
hardly commenced? mother, how sadly have I trifled 
with the gifts of Heaven ! What have I done which can 
benefit one human being ? ' I folded her to my heart, and 
endeavored to soothe the tumult of her feelings, bade her 
remember her dutiful conduct as a daughter, her affectionate 
bearing as a sister and friend, and the consolation which she 
had afforded me through years of suffering ! ' my mother,' 
said she, ' I have been reflecting much of late upon this sad 
waste of intellect, and had marked out for myself a course 

of usefulness which, should God spare my life ' Here 

her emotions became too powerful to proceed. At times she 
suffered much anxiety with regard to her eternal welfare, and 
deeply lamented her want of faithfulness in the performance 
of her religious duties ; complained of coldness and formality 
in her devotional exercises, and entreated me to pray with 
and for her. At other times her hope of heaven would be 
bright, her faith unwavering, and her devotion fervent. Yet 
it was evident to me that she still cherished the hope that 
her life might be prolonged. Her mother had lingered for 



282 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

years in a state equally hopeless, and during that period had 
been enabled to attend to the moral and religious culture of 
her little family. Might not the same kind Providence pro- 
long her life. It would be vain to attempt a description of 
those seasons of deep and thrilling interest. God alone knows 
in what way my own weak frame was sustained. I felt that 
she had been renovated and purified by Divine Grace, and 
to see her thus distressed when I thought that all the consola- 
tions of the Gospel ought to be hers, gave my heart a severe 
pang. Many of our friends now were of opinion that a 
change of climate might benefit, perhaps restore her. Here- 
tofore, when the suggestion had been made, she shrunk from 
the idea of leaving her home for a distant clime. Now her 
anxiety to try the effect of a change was great, I felt that it 
would be vain, although I was desirous that nothing should 
be left untried. Feeble as she now was, the idea of her re- 
signing the comforts of home and being subject to the fatigues 
of travelling in public conveyances was a dreadful one ; yet 
if there was a rational prospect of prolonging her life by 
these means, I was anxious to give them a trial. Dr. David- 
son, after much deliberation on the subject, called counsel. 

Dr. came, and when, after half an hour's pleasant and 

playful conversation with Margaret, he joined us in the parlor, 
oh ! how my poor heart trembled. I hung upon the motions 
of his lips as if my own life depended on what they might 
utter. At length he spoke, and I felt as if an ice-bolt had 
passed through my heart. He had never thought, although 
he had known her many years, that a change of climate would 
benefit her. She had lived beyond his expectations many 
months, even years ; and now he was convinced, were we to 
attempt to take her to a Southern climate, that she would die 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 2S3 

on the passage. Make it as pleasant as possible for her at 
home, was his advice. He thought that a few months must 
terminate her life. She knew that we had confidence in the 
opinion of this, her favorite physician. "When I had gained 
firmness enough to answer her questions, I again entered the 
room and found her composed, although she had evidently 
been strongly agitated, and had not brought her mind to ^ear 
her doom. Never, oh ! never to the latest hour of my life, 
shall I forget the look she gave me when I met her. What 
a heart-rending task was mine ! I performed it as gently as 
possible. I said the Doctor thought her strength unequal to 
the fatigue of the journey ; that he was not so great an advo- 
cate for change of climate as many persons ; that he had 
known many cases in which he thought it injurious, and his 
best advice was that we should again ward off the severity 
of the winter by creating an atmosphere within our house. 
She mildly acquiesced, and the subject was dropped altogether. 
She sometimes read, and frequently from mere habit, held a 
book in her hand when unable to digest its contents, and 
within the book there usually rested a piece of paper, upon 
which she occasionally marked the reflections which arose 
in her mind, either in poetry or prose. 

" The following fragments appear to be the very breathings 
of her soul during the last few weeks of her life — written 
in pencil, in a hand so weak and tremulous that I could with 
difficulty decipher them word by word, with the aid of a strong 
magnifying glass. 

' Consumption ! child of woe, thy blighting breath 

Marks all that 's fair and lovely for thine own, 

And, sweeping o'er the silver chords of life, 

Blends all their music in one death-like tone. 

1838. 



284 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

What strange, what mystic things we are, 
With spirits longing to outlive the stars. 
but even in decay- 
Hasting to meet our brethren in the dust. 
As one small dew-drop runs, another drops 
To sink unnoticed in the world of waves. 

Oh, it is sad to feel that when a few short years 
Of life are past, we shall lie down, unpitied 
And unknown, amid a careless world; 
That youth and age and revelry and grief 
Above our heads shall pass, and we alone 
Shall sleep ! alone shall be as we have been, 
No more.' 

" These are unfinished fragments, a part of which I could not 
decipher at all. I insert them to give an idea of the daily 
operations of her mind during the whole of this long summer 
of suffering. Her gentle spirit never breathed a murmur or 
complaint. I think she was rarely heard to express even a 
feeling of weariness. But here are a few more of those out- 
pourings of the heart. I copy these little effusions with all 
their errors ; there is a sacredness about them which forbids 
the change even of a single letter. The first of the fragments 
which follow was written on a Sabbath evening in autumn, not 
many weeks before her death. 

' It is autumn, the season of rapid decay, 
When the flow' rets of summer are hasting away 

From the breath of the wintry blast, 
And the buds which oped to the gazer's eye, 
And the glowing tints of the gorgeous sky, 
And the forests robed in their emerald dye, 

With their loveliest blossoms have past. 
'T is eve, and the brilliant sunset hue 
Is replaced by a sky of the coldest blue, 

Untouched by a floating cloud. 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 285 

And all Nature is silent, calm, and serene, 

As though sorrow and suffering never had been 

On this beautiful earth abroad. 
'T is a Sabbath eve, and the longing soul 
Is charmed by its quiet and gentle control 

From each wayward and wandering thought, 
And it longs from each meaner affection to move, 
And it soareth the troubles of earth above, 
To bathe in that fountain of light and love, 

Whence our purest enjoyments are caught.' 



1838. 



' But winter, oh what shall thy greeting be 

From our waters, our eai-th, and our sky; 
What welcoming strain shall arise for thee 

As thy chariot-wheels draw nigh ? 
Alas ! the fresh flowers of the spirit decay 

As thy cold, cold steps advance, 
And even young Fancy is shrinking away 

From the chill of thy terrible glance ; 
And Hope with her mantle of rainbow hue 

Hath fled from thy freezing eye, 
And her bright train of visions are melting in air 

As thy shivering blasts sweep by. 
Thy' 

' The nature of the soul, 
The spirit, what is it ? Mysterious, sublime, 

Undying, unchanging, forever the same, 
It bounds lightly athwart the dark billows of time, 

And moves on unscorched by its heavenly flame. 

Man owns thee, and feels thee, and knows thee divine; 

He feels thou art his, and thou never canst die ; 
He believes thee a gem from the Maker's pure shrine, 

A portion of purity holy and high. 

'T is around him, within him the source of his life, 
Yet too weak to contemplate its glory and might; 



Oct. 1838. 



286 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

He trembling shrinks back to dull earth's humble strife, 
And leaves the pure atmosphere glowing with light. 

Thou spark from the Deity's radiant throne, 

I know thee, yet shrink from thy greatness and power; 

Thou art mine in thy splendor, I feel thee my own, 
Yet behold me as frail as the light summer flower. 

I strive in my weakness to gaze on thy might, 
To trace out thy wanderings through ages to come, 

Till like birds on the sea, all exhausted, at length 
1 flutter back weary to earth as my home. 

Like a diamond when laid in a rough case of clay, 

Which may crumble and wear from the pure gem enclosed, 

But which ne'er can be lit by one tremulous ray 
From the glory-crowned star in its dark case reposed.' 

"As the cool weather advanced, her decline became more 
visible, and she devoted more and more of her time to search- 
ing the Scriptures, self-examination and subjects for reflection, 
and questions which were to be solved by evidences deduced 
from the Bible. I found them but a few days before her death, 
in the sacred volume which lay upon the table, at which she 
usually sat during her hours of retirement. She had been 
searching the holy book, and overcome by the exertion, rang 
the bell which summoned me to her side, for no person but 
myself was admitted during the time set apart for her devo- 
tional exercises. 

' Subjects for reflection : — 

1st. The uniform usefulness of Christ's miracles. 

2d. The manner in which he overthrows all the exalted 
hopes which the Jews entertain of a temporal kingdom, and 
strives to explain to them the entire spirituality of the one he 
has come to erect. 

3d. The deep and unchangeable love for man, v hich must 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 287 

have impelled Christ to resist so many temptations and endure 
so many sufferings, even death, that truth might enlighten the 
world, and heaven and immortality become realities instead of 
dreams. 

4th. The general thoughtlessness of man with regard to his 
greatest, his only interest. 

5th. Christ's constant submission to the will of his Father, 
and the necessity of our imitating the meek and calm and 
gentle qualities of his character, together with that firmness 
of purpose and confidence in God which sustained him to the 
end. 

Gth. The necessity of so living, that we need not fear to 
think each day our last. 

7th. The necessity of religion to soothe and support the 
mind on the bed of sickness. 

8th. Self-examination. 

9th. Is Christ mentioned expressly in Scripture as equal 
with God and a part ? 

10th. Is there sufficient ground for the doctrine of the 
Trinity ? 

11th. Did Christ come as a prophet and reformer of the 
world, or as a sacrifice for our sins, to appease the wrath of his 
Father. 

12th. Is anything said of infant baptism ? ' 

Written in November, 1838. 

" About three weeks before her departure, I one morning 
found her in the parlor, where, as I before observed, she spent 
a portion of her time in retirement. I saw that she had been 
much agitated, and seemed weary. I seated myself by her 
and rested her head on my bosom, while I gently pressed my 



288 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

hand upon her throbbing temples, to soothe the agitation of her 
nerves. She kissed me again and again, and seemed as if she 
feared to trust her voice to speak, lest her feelings should over- 
come her. As I returned her caresses, she silently put a folded 
paper in my hand. I began to open it, when she gently laid 
her hand on mine, and said in a low tremulous tone, ' Not now 
dear mother ! ' I then led her back to her room, placed her 
upon the sofa, and retired to examine the paper. It contained 
the following lines : — 

TO MY MOTHER. 

Mother, would the power were mine 
To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear, 

And breathe each trembling new-born thought 

"Within thy fondly listening ear. 
As when in days of health and glee 
My hopes and fancies wandered free. 

But, mother, now a shade has past 

Athwart my brightest visions here, 
A cloud of darkest gloom has wrapt 

The remnant of my brief career ! 
No song, no echo can I win, 
The sparkling fount has died within. 

The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 

And Fancy spreads her wings no more ; 
And oh, how vain and trivial seem 

The pleasures that I prized before. 
My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 

Is struggling on through doubt and strife. 
Oh ! may it prove as time rolls on, 

The pathway to eternal life ; — 
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er, 

1 '11 sing thee as in days of yore. 

I said that hope had passed from earth, 
'T was but to fold her wings in heaven, 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 289 

To whisper of the soul's new birth, 

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven. 
When mine are washed in tears away, 
Then shall my spirit swell my lay. 

When God shall guide my soul above 
By the soft cords of heavenly love, 
When the vain cares of earth depart, 
And tuneful voices swell my heart, 
Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise, 
And all not offered at His shrine, 
Dear mother, I will place on thine. 

" It was long before I could regain sufficient composure to re- 
turn to her. When I did so, I found her sweetly calm, and 
she greeted me with a smile so full of affection, that I shall 
cherish the recollection of its brightness until my latest breath. 
It was the last piece she ever wrote, except a parody of four 
lines of the hymn, 'I would not live always,' which was written 
within the last week of her life. 

' I would not live always, thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without and corruption within, 
With the soid ever dimmed by its hopes and its fears, 
And the heart's holy flame ever struggling through tears.' " 



Thus far, in preparing this memoir, we have availed our- 
selves almost entirely of copious memoranda, furnished us, at 
our request, by Mrs. Davidson ; but when the narrator ap- 
proached the closing scene of this most affecting story, the 
heart of the mother gave out, and she found herself totally 
inadequate to the task. Fortunately, Dr. Davidson had re- 
tained a copy of a letter, written by her in the midst of her 
affliction, to Miss Sedgwick, in reply to an epistle from that 



290 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

lady, expressive of the kindest sympathy, and making some in- 
quiries relative to the melancholy event. We subjoin that letter 
entire, for never have we read anything of the kind more truly 
eloquent or deeply affecting. 

" Saratoga Springs. 
"Yes, my dear Miss Sedgwick ; she is an angel now ; calmly 
and sweetly she sunk to her everlasting rest, as a babe gently 
slumbers on its mother's bosom. I thank my Father in heaven 
that I was permitted to watch over her, and I trust administer 
to her comfort during her illness. I know, my friend, you will 
not expect either a very minute or connected detail of the cir- 
cumstances preceding her change, from me at this time, for I 
am indeed bowed down with sorrow. I feel that I am truly 
desolate, how desolate I will not attempt to describe. Yet in 
the depth of grief I have consolations of the purest, most 
soothing and exalted nature. I would not, indeed I could not 
murmur, but rather bless my God that he has in the plenitude 
of his goodness made me, even for a brief space on earth, the 
honored mother of such an angel. 0, my dear Miss Sedg- 
wick, I wish . you could have seen her during the last two 
months of her brief sojourn with us. Her meekness and pa- 
tience, and her even cheerful bearing were unexampled. But 
when she was assured that all the tender and endearing ties 
which bound her to earth were about to be severed, when she 
saw that life and all its bright visions were fading from her 
eyes — that she was standing at the entrance of the dark val- 
ley which must be traversed in her way to the eternal world, 
the struggle was great, but brief, — she caught the hem of 
her Saviour's robe and meekly bowed to the mandate of her 
God. Since the beginning of August, I have watched this 
tender blossom with intense anxiety, and marked her decline 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 291 

with a breaking heart ; and although from that time until the 
period of her departure, I never spent a whole night in bed, 
my excitement was so strong that I was unconscious of the 
want of sleep. 0, my dear madam, the whole course of her 
decline was so unlike any other death-bed scene I ever wit- 
nessed ; there was nothing of the gloom of a sick-chamber ; a 
charm was in and around her ; a holy light seemed to pervade 
everything belonging to her. There was a sacredness, if I 
may so express it, which seemed to tell the presence of the 
Divinity. Strangers felt it, all acknowledged it. Very few 
w T ere admitted to her sick-room, but those few left it with an 
elevation of heart new, solemn, and delightful. She continued 
to ride out as long as the weather was mild, and even after 
she became too weak to walk she frequently desired to be 
taken into the parlor, and when there, with all her little imple- 
ments of drawing and writing, her books, and even her little 
work-box and basket beside her ; she seemed to think that by 
these little attempts at her usual employments, she could con- 
ceal from me, for she saw my heart was breaking, the ravages 
of disease and her consequent debility. The New Testament 
was her daily study, and a portion of every day was spent in 
private, in self-examination and prayer. My dear Miss Sedg- 
wick, how I have felt my own littleness, my total unworthiness, 
when compared with this pure, this high-souled, intellectual, 
yet timid, humble child ; bending at the altar of her God, and 
pleading for pardon and acceptance in his sight, and grace to 
assist her in preparing for eternity. As her strength wasted, 
she often desired me to share her hours of retirement, and con- 
verse with her and read to her, when unable to read herself. 
Oh ! how sad, how delightful, how agonizing is the memory of 
the sweet and holy communion we then enjoyed. Forgive 



292 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

me, my friend, for thus mingling my own feelings with the 
circumstances you wished to know ; and, oh ! continue to pray 
that God will give me submission under this desolating stroke. 
She was my darling, my almost idolized child ; truly, truly, 
you have said, the charm of my existence. Her symptoms 
were extremely distressing, although she suffered no pain. 
A week before her departure she desired that the sacrament 
of the Lord's Supper might be administered to her. ' Mother,' 
said she, ' I do not desire it because I feel worthy to receive it ; 
I feel myself a sinner; but I desire to manifest my faith in 
Christ by receiving an ordinance instituted by himself but a 
short time before his crucifixion.' The Holy Sacrament was 
administered by Mr. Babcock. The solemnity of the scene 
can be better felt than described. I cannot attempt it. After 
it was over, a holy calm seemed to pervade her mind, and she 
looked almost like a beatified spirit. The evening following 
she said to me, ' Mother, I have made a solemn surrender of 
myself to God ; if it is his will, I would desire to live long 
enough to prove the sincerity of my profession, but his will be 
done ; living or dying I am henceforth devoted to God.' After 
this, some doubt seemed to intrude, her spirit was troubled. I 
asked her if there was anything she desired to have done, any 
little arrangements to be made, anything to say which she had 
left unsaid, and assured her that her wishes should be sacred 
to me. She turned her eyes upon me with an expression so 
sad, so mournfully sweet : ' Mother, " When I can read my 
title clear to mansions in the skies," then I will think of other 
matters.' Her hair, which when a little child had been often 
cut to improve its growth, was now very beautiful, and she 
usually took much pains with it. During the whole course of 
her sickness I had taken care of it. One day, not long before 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 293 

her death, she said, evidently making a great effort to speak 
with composure, ' Mother, if you are willing I will have my 
hair cut off; it is troublesome ; I should like it better short/ 
I understood her at once ; she did not like to have the idea of 
death associated with those beautiful tresses which I had loved 
to braid. She would have them taken off while living. I 
mournfully gave my consent, and she said, i I will not ask you, 

my dear mother, to do it ; my friend, Mrs. F , will be with 

me to-night, and she will do it for me.' The dark rich locks 
were severed at midnight ; never shall I forget the expression 
of her young faded face as I entered the room. ' Do not be 
agitated, dear mamma, I am more comfortable now. Lay it 
away, if you please, and to-morrow I will arrange and dispose 
of it. Do you know that I view my hair as something sacred ? 
It is a part of myself, which will be reunited to my body at 
the Resurrection.' She had sat in an easy-chair or reclined 
upon a sofa for several weeks. 

" On Friday, the 22d of November, at my urgent entreaty, she 
consented to be laid upon the bed. She found it a relief, and 
sunk into a deep sleep, from which she was only awoke when 
I aroused her, to take some refreshment. When she awoke 
she looked and spoke like an angel, but soon dropped asleep 
as before. Oh ! how my poor heart trembled, for I felt that it 
was but the precursor to her long last rest, although many of 
our friends thought she might yet linger some weeks. A total 
loss of appetite and a difficulty in swallowing prevented her 
from taking any nourishment throughout the day, and when 
we placed her in the easy-chair, at night, in order to arrange 
her bed, I offered her some nice food, which I had prepared, 
and found she could not take it. My feelings amounted al- 
most to agony. She said, ' Do not be distressed. I will take 
13 



294 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

it bye and bye.' I seated myself beside her, and she said, 
1 Surely, my dear mother, you have many consolations. You 
are gathering a little family in heaven to welcome you.' My 
heart was full ; when I could speak, I said, ' Yes, my love, I 
feel that I am indeed gathering a little family in heaven to bid 
you welcome, but when they are all assembled there, how 
dreadful to doubt whether I may ever be permitted to join the 
circle.' ' Oh, hush, dear, dear mother ; do not indulge such 
sad thoughts ; the fact of your having trained this little band 
to inhabit that holy place is sufficient evidence to me that you 
will not fail to join us there.' I was with her myself that night, 
and a friend in the neighborhood sat up also. On Saturday 
morning, after I had taken half an hour's sleep, I found her 
quiet as a sleeping infant. I prepared her some food, and 
when I awoke her to take it, she said, ' Dear mother, I will 
try, if it is only to please you.' I fed her, as I would have fed 
a babe. She smiled sweetly and said, ' Mother, I am again an 
infant.' I asked if I should read to her ; she said yes, she 
would like to have me read a part of the Gospel of John. I 
did so, and then said, ' My dear Margaret, you look sweetly 
composed this morning. I trust all is peace within your heart' 
< Yes, mother, all is peace, sweet peace. I feel that I can do 
nothing for myself. I have cast my burden upon Christ.' 
I asked if she could rest her hopes there in perfect confi- 
dence. ' Yes,' she replied, ' Jesus will not fail me. I can trust 
him.' She then sank into a deep sleep, as on the preceding 
day. In the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. H. came from Ballston ; 
they were much affected by the change a few days had made 
in her appearance. I awoke her, fearing she might sleep too 
long, and said her friends had come. She extended her arms 
to them both, and kissed them, saying to Mr. H. that he found 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 295 

ner a late riser, and then sank to sleep again. Mrs. H. re- 
mained with us that night. About sunset I spoke to her. 
She awoke and answered me cheerfully, but observing that I 
was unusually depressed, she said, ' Dear mother, I am wear- 
ing you out.' I replied, ' My child, my beloved child, it is not 
that ; the thought of our separation fills me with anguish.' I 
never shall forget the expression of her sweet face, as she re- 
plied, ' Mother, my own dear mother, do not grieve. Our 
parting will not be long; in life we were inseparable, and I 
feel that you cannot live without me. You will soon join me, 
and we shall part no more.' I kissed her pale cheek, as I 
bent over her, and finding my agitation too strong to repress, 
I left the room. She soon after desired to get up ; she said 
she must have a coughing fit, and she could bear it better in 
the chair. When there she began to cough, and her distress 
was beyond description ; her strength was soon exhausted, and 
we again carried her to the bed. She coughed from six until 
half-past ten. I then prevailed on her to take some nutritious 
drink, and she fell asleep. My husband and Mrs. H. were 
both of them anxious that I should retire and get some rest, 
but I did not feel the want of it ; and impressed as I was with 
the idea that this was the last night she would pass on earth, 
I could not go to bed. But others saw not the change, and 
to satisfy them, I went at 12 to my room, which opened into 
hers. There I sat listening to every sound.' All seemed quiet; 
I twice opened the door, and Mrs. H. said she slept, and 
had taken her drink as often as directed, and again urged me 
to go to bed. A little after 2 I put on my night-dress, and 
kid down. Between 3 and 4 Mrs. II. came in haste for 
ether. I pointed to the bottle, and sprang up. She said, I 
entreat, my dear Mrs. Davidson, that you do not rise ; there 



296 MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

is no sensible change, only a turn of oppression. She closed 
the door, and I hastened to rise, when Mrs. H. came^ again, 
and said Margaret has asked for her mother. I flew — she 
held the bottle of ether in her own hand, and pointed to her 
breast. I poured it on her head and chest. She revived. ' I 
am better now,' said she. ' Mother, you tremble, you are cold ; 
put on your clothes.' I stepped to the fire, and threw on a 
wrapper, when she stretched out both her arms, and exclaimed, 
* Mother, take me in your arms.' I raised her, and seating 
myself on the bed, passed my arms around her waist ; her 
head dropped upon my bosom, and her expressive eyes were 
raised to mine. That look I never shall forget ; it said, ' Tell 
me, mother, is this death ? ' I answered the appeal as if she 
had spoken. I laid my hand upon her white brow ; a cold 
dew had gathered there ; I spoke, ' Yes, my beloved, it is almost 
finished ; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave one more 
look, two or three short fluttering breaths, and all was over — 
her spirit was with its God — not a struggle or groan pre- 
ceded her departure. Her father just came in time to witness 
her last breath. For a long half-hour I remained in the same 
position, with the precious form of my lifeless child upon my 
bosom. I closed those beautiful eyes with my own hand. I 
was calm. I felt that I had laid my angel from my own breast, 
upon the bosom of her God. Her father and myself were 
alone. Her Sabbath commenced in heaven. Ours was opened 
in deep, deep anguish. Our sons, who had been sent for, had 
not arrived, and four days and nights did Ellen, (our young 
nurse, whom Margaret dearly loved,) and I, watch over the 
sacred clay. I could not resign this mournful duty to strangers. 
Although no son or relative was with us in this sad and solemn , 
hour, never did sorrowing strangers meet with more sympathy 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 297 

than we received in this hour of affliction, from the respected 
inhabitants of Saratoga. We shall carry with us through life 
the grateful remembrance of their kindness. And now, my 
dear madam, let me thank you for your kind consoling letter ; 
it has given me consolation. My Margaret, my now angel 
child, loved you tenderly. She recognized in yours a kindred 
mind, and I feel that her pure spirit will behold with delight 
your efforts to console her bereaved mother." 

She departed this life on the 25th of November, 1838, 
aged fifteen years and eight months ; her earthly remains 
repose in the grave-yard of the village of Saratoga. 

" A few days after her departure," observes Mrs. Davidson 
in a memorandum, " I was searching the library in the hope 
of finding some further memento of my lost darling, when a 
packet folded in the form of a letter met my eye. It was 
confined with a needle and thread, instead of a seal, and 
secured more firmly by white sewing-silk, which was passed 
several times around it ; the superscription was, ' For my 
Mother, Private.' Upon opening these papers, I found they 
contained the results of self-examination, from a very early 
period of her life until within a few days of its close. These 
results were noted and composed at different periods. They 
are some of the most interesting relics she has left, but they 
are of too sacred a nature to meet the public eye. They dis- 
play a degree of self-knowledge and humility, and a depth 
of contrition, which could only emanate from a heart chas- 
tened and subdued by the power of divine grace." 



2\)$ MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

We here conclude this memoir, which, for the most part, 
as the reader will perceive, is a mere transcript of the records 
furnished by a mother's heart. We shall not pretend to com- 
ment on these records ; they need no comment, and they 
admit no heightening. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded 
with our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and 
the seraphic purity of the little being we have attempted to 
commemorate broken upon us ; and the more have we shrunk 
at our own unworthiness for such a task. To use one of her 
own exquisite expressions, she was "A spirit of heaven fet- 
tered by the strong affections of earth ; " and the whole of 
her brief sojourn here seems to have been a struggle to re- 
gain her native skies. We may apply to her a passage from 
one of her own tender apostrophes, to the memory of her 
sister Lucretia. 

"... One who came from Heaven awhile, 
To bless the mourners here, 
Their joys to hallow with her smile, 
Their sorrow with her tear. 

Who joined to all the charms of earth 

The noblest gifts of Heaven, 
To whom the Muses at her birth 

Their sweetest smiles had given. 

Whose eye beamed forth with fancy's ray, 

And genius pure and high ; 
Whose very soul had seemed to bathe 

In streams of melody. 



The cheek which once so sweetly beamed, 
Grew pallid with decay ; 



MARGARET DAVIDSON. 299 

The burning fire within consumed 
Its tenement of clay. 

Death, as if fearing to destroy, 

Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
She gave a tear for those she loved, 

Then met him with a smile.** 



REVIEWS AND MISCELLANIES. 



13* 



[The residue of this volume consists of Reviews, articles from the " Knicker- 
bocker Magazine," and the "Kaatskill Mountains," a contribution to Putnam's 
"Home-Book of the Picturesque," published in 1850. 

The Reviews of the works of Robert Treat Paine, and the Poems of Edwin C. 
Holland, are drawn from the " Analectic Magazine " during the period of Mr. 
Irving's editorship. The notice of Wheaton's " History of the Northmen " ap- 
peared in the "North American" in 1832. The review of the "Chronicle of 
the Conquest of Granada," a work emanating from Washington Irving, but 
purporting to come from the pen of Fray Antonio Agapida, an imaginary per- 
sonage, was furnished to the "London Quarterly," a long time after its publi- 
cation, at the instance of Murray, his publisher, who " thought the nature of the 
work was not sufficiently understood, and that it was considered rather as a 
work of fiction than one substantially of historic fact." It is needless to add 
that it is in no sense a laudatory review, but simply explanatory of the historical 
foundation of a work in which he had somewhat mystified the reader by the use 
of his monkish soubriquet. 

The articles reproduced from "The Knickerbocker" date mainly from the 
year 1839. A majority of Mr. Irving's contributions to that magazine, during 
the two years he was engaged in writing for it, have been incorporated in 
1 Wolfert's Roost." —Ed.] 



REVIEWS AND MISCELLANIES. 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

The Works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat 
Paine, Jun., Esq. with Notes. To which are prefixed 
Sketches of his Life, Character, and Writings. 8vo. pp. 464. 
Belcher. Boston, 1812. 

In reviewing the work before us, criticism is deprived of 
half its utility. However just may be its decisions, they can 
be of no avail to the author. With him the fitful scene of 
literary life is over ; praise can stimulate him to no new exer- 
tions, nor censure point the way to future improvement. The 
only benefit, therefore, to be derived from an examination of 
his merits, is to deduce therefrom instruction for his survi- 
vors, either as to the excellences they should imitate, or the 
errors they should avoid. 

There is no country to which practical criticism is of more 
importance than this, owing to the crude state of native 
talent, and the immaturity of public taste. We are prone to 
all the vices of literature, from the casual and superficial man- 
ner in which we attend to it. Absorbed in politics, or oc- 
cupied by business, few can find leisure, amid these strong 
agitations of the mind, to follow the gentler pursuits of litera- 



304 ROBERT TREAT PAINE* 

ture, and give it that calm study and meditative contemplation 
necessary to discover the true principles of beauty and ex- 
cellence in composition. To render criticism, therefore, more 
impressive, and to bring it home, as it were, to our own 
bosoms, it is not sufficient merely to point to those standard 
writers of Great Britain who should form our real models, 
but it is important to take those writers among ourselves 
who have attained celebrity, and strutinize their characters. 
Authois are apt to catch and borrow the faults and beauties 
of neighboring- authors, rather than of those removed by time 
or distance ; as a man is more apt to fall into the vices and 
peculiarities of those around him, than to form himself on 
the models of Roman or Grecian virtue. 

This is apparent even in Great Britain, where, with all the 
advantages of finished education, literary society, and critical 
tribunals, we see her authors continually wandering away 
into some new and corrupt fashion of writing, rather than 
conforming to those orders of composition which have the 
sanction of time and criticism. If such be the case in Great 
Britain, and if even her veteran literati have still the need of 
rigorous criticism to keep them from running riot ; how much 
more necessary is it in our country, where our literary ranks, 
like those of our military, are rude, undisciplined, and insub- 
ordinate. It is for these reasons that we presume with free- 
dom, but, we trust, with candor, to examine the relics of an 
American poet, to do justice to his merits, but to point out 
his errors, as far as our judgment will allow, for the benefit 
of his contemporaries. 

The volume before us commences with a biography of the 
author, written by two several hands. The style is occasion- 
ally overwrought, and swelling beyond the simplicity proper 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 305 

to this species of writing, but on the whole creditable to the 
writers. The spirit in which it is written is both friendly and 
candid. We cannot but admire the generous struggle between 
tenderness for the author's memory and a laudable determi- 
nation to tell the whole truth, which occurs whenever the 
failings of the poet are adverted to. We applaud the frankness 
and delicacy with which the latter are avowed. If biography 
have any merit, it consists in presenting ' a faithful picture of 
the character, the habits, the whole course of living and 
thinking of the person who is the subject — for, otherwise, we 
may as well have a romance, and an ideal hero imposed on 
us, for our wonder and admiration. 

The biography of Mr. Paine presents another of those 
melancholy details, too commonly furnished by literary life, — 
those gleams of sunshine, and days of darkness ; those mo- 
ments of rapture, and periods of lingering depression ; those 
dreams of hope, and waking hours of black despondency. 
Such is the rapid round of transient joys and frequent suffer- 
ings that form the " be all and the end all, here " of the un- 
lucky tribe that live by writing. Surely, if the young im- 
agination could ever be repressed by sad example, these 
gloomy narratives would be sufficient to deter it from ven- 
turing into the fairy land of literature, — a region so pre- 
carious in its enjoyments and fruitful in its calamities. 

We find that Mr. Paine started on his career, full of ardor 
and confidence. His collegiate life was gay and brilliant. 
His poetic talents had already broken forth, and acquired him 
the intoxicating but dangerous meed of early praise. The 
description given of him by his biographer, at this time, is ex- 
tremely prepossessing. 

" He was graduated with the esteem of the government and the 



306 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

regard of his contemporaries. He was as much distinguished for ihe 
opening virtues of his heart, as for the vivacity of his wit, the vigor 
of his imagination, and the variety of his knowledge. A liberality 
of sentiment and a contempt of selfishness are usual concomitants, 
and in him were striking characteristics. Urbanity of manners and 
a delicacy of feeling imparted a charm to his benignant temper and 
social disposition." 

After leaving college, we begin to perceive the misfortunes 
which his early display of talents had entailed upon him. He 
had tasted the sweets of literary triumph, and, as it is not the 
character of genius to rest satisfied with past achievements, he 
longed to add fresh laurels to those he had acquired. With 
this strong inclination towards a literary life, we behold him 
painfully endeavoring to accustom himself to mercantile pur- 
suits, and harness his mind to the diurnal drudgery of a count- 
ing-house. The result was such as might naturally be ex- 
pected. He neglected the monotonous pages of the journal 
and the ledger, for the magic numbers of Homer and Horace. 
His fancy, stimulated by restraint, repeatedly flashed forth in 
productions that attracted applause ; he was more frequently 
found at the theatre than on 'change ; delighted more in the 
society of scholars and men of taste and fancy, than of '-'sub- 
stantial merchants," and at length abandoned the patient but 
comfortable realities of trade, for the splendid uncertainties of 
the Muse. 

Our limits will not permit us to go into a minute examina- 
tion of his life, which would otherwise be worthy of attention ; 
for the habits and fortunes of an author, in this country, might 
yield some food for curious speculation. Unfitted for busi- 
ness, in a nation where every one is busy ; devoted to litera- 
ture, where literary leisure is confounded with idleness ; the 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 307 

man of letters is almost an insulated being, with few to under- 
stand, less to value, and scarcely any to encourage his pur- 
suits. It is not surprising, therefore, that our authors soon 
grow weary of a race which they have to run alone, and turn 
their attention to other callings of a more worldly and profit- 
able nature. This is one of the reasons why the writers of 
this country so seldom attain to excellence. Before their 
genius is disciplined, and their taste refined, their talents are 
diverted into the ordinary channels of busy life, and occupied 
in what are considered its more useful purposes. In fact, the 
great demand for rough talent, as for common manual labor, 
in this country, prevents the appropriation of either mental 
or physical forces to elegant employments. The delicate 
mechanician may toil in penury, unless he devote himself 
to common manufactures, suitable to the ordinary consump- 
tion of the country ; and the fine writer, if he depend upon 
his pen for a subsistence, will soon discover that he may 
starve on the very summit of Parnassus, while he sees herds 
of newspaper editors battening on the rank marshes of its 
borders. 

Such is most likely to be the fate of authors by profession, 
in the present circumstances of our country. But Mr. Paine 
had certainly nothing of the kind to complain of. His early 
prospects were extremely flattering. His productions met 
with a local circulation, and the poet with a degree of atten- 
tion and respect highly creditable to the intelligent part of 
the Union where he resided. 

" The qualities," says his biographer, " which had secured him 
esteem at the university were daily expanding, and his reputation 
was daily increasing. His society was eagerly sought in the most 
polished and refined circles ; he administered compliments with great 



308 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

address; and no beau was ever a greater favorite in the beau 
monde I " 

Having now confided to his pen for a support, Mr. Paine 
undertook the editorship of a semi-weekly paper, devoted to 
Federal politics. It was conducted without diligence, and, if 
we may judge from the effects, without discretion ; for it 
drew upon him the vengeance of a mob, which attacked the 
house where he resided, and the resentment of a young gen- 
tleman whose father he had satirized. This youth, with an 
impetuosity hallowed by his filial feeling, demanded honor- 
able satisfaction — it was denied, and the consequence was, 
that, in a casual rencounter, he took it, in a more degrading 
manner, on the person of Mr. Paine. 

This was a deadly blow to the reputation of our author ; 
and his standing in society was still more impaired by his 
subsequent marriage with an actress, which produced a rup- 
ture with his father and a desertion by the fashionable world. 
This last is mentioned in terms of useless reprehension by 
his biographer. It is idle to rail at society for its laws of rank 
and gradations of respect. These rise, of themselves, out of 
the nature of things, and the moral and political circum- 
stances in which that society is placed ; and the universal 
acquiescence in them by the soundest minds is a sufficient 
proof that they are salutary and correct. Mr. Paine should 
have foreseen the inevitable consequences of his union, in a 
society so rigid and religious, and where theatrical exhibitions 
had been considered so improper as for a long time to have 
been prohibited by law. Having foreseen the consequences, 
and willingly encountered them, it would have been a proof 
of his firmness and good sense to have submitted to them 
without repining. 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 309 

Unfortunately, Mr. Paine seems to have been deficient in 
that true kind of pride, which draws its support from the 
ample sources of conscious worth and integrity ; which bears 
up its possessor against unmerited neglect, and induces him 
to persist in doing well, though certain of no approbation 
but his own. The moment the world neglected him, he 
began to neglect himself, as if he had theretofore acted 
right from the love of praise, rather than the love of vir- 
tue. 

He contracted habits of intemperance, which, added to 
his natural heedlessness and want of application, rendered 
all the remainder of his life a scene of vicissitude. His 
newspaper establishment, from want of his personal atten- 
tion, proved unfortunate ; at the end of eighteen months he 
disposed of it, and became master of ceremonies of the 
Boston Theatre, — an anomalous office which we do not un- 
derstand, but which for a time produced him a present means 
of subsistence. Notwithstanding the irregularity of his hab- 
its, its seems that he never exerted his talents without ample 
success. He was occasionally called on for orations,- odes, 
songs, and addresses, which not only met with public applause, 
but with a pecuniary remuneration that is worthy of being 
recorded in our literary history. For his " Invention of Let- 
ters," a poem of about three hundred lines, we are told he 
received fifteen hundred dollars, exclusive of expense ; and 
twelve hundred by the sale of his " Ruling Passion," a poem 
of about the same length. The political song of " Adams 
and Liberty " produced him also a profit of seven hundred 
and fifty dollars. These are sevenfold harvests, that have 
rarely been equalled even in the productive countries of 
Europe. 



810 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

After a few years passed in this manner, having in some 
measure reformed his habits, his friends began to entertain 
hopes of rescuing him from this precarious mode of subsist- 
ence. They urged him to study the law, and offered him 
pecuniary assistance for the purpose. He listened to their 
advice; abandoned the theatre; applied himself diligently 
to legal studies ; was admitted, and became a successful advo- 
cate. Business poured in upon him — his reputation rose — » 
prospects of ease, of affluence, of substantial respectability, 
opened before him — but he relinquished them all with his 
incorrigible recklessness of mind, and relapsed into his former 
self-abandonment. From this time the springs of his mind 
seemed to have been rapidly broken down — invention lan- 
guished — literary ambition was almost at an end ; at the same 
time, an inordinate appetite for knowledge was awakened, 
.but it was that kind of appetite which produces indigestion, 
rather than an invigoration of the system. 

" During these last years of his life," says his biographer, " without 
a library, wandering from place to place, frequently uncertain where 
or whether he could procure a meal ; his thirst and acquisition of 
knowledge astonishingly increased. Though frequently tormented 
with disease, and beset by duns and ' the law's staff-officers,' from 
whom, and from prison, he was frequently relieved by friendship; 
neither sickness nor penury abated his love of a book and of instruc- 
tive conversation." 

It is painful to trace the concluding history of this eccentric, 
contradictory, but interesting man. Broken down by penury 
and disease ; disheartened by fancied, perhaps real, but cer- 
tainly self-brought neglect ; debilitated in mind and shattered 
in reputation, he languished into that state of nervous irritabil- 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. oil 

ity and sickliness of thought, when the world ceases to interest 
and delight ; when desire sinks into apathy, and " the grass- 
hopper becomes a burden." 

We cannot refrain from recurring to the picture given of 
him by his faithful biographer, at the outset of his career, with 
all the glow of youth and fancy, and the freshness of blooming 
reputation that graced his opening talents, and contrasting it 
with the following, taken in his day of premature decay and 
blighted intellect. The contrast is instructive and affecting ; 
a few pages present the sad reverse of years. 

" He was fed and lodged in an apartment at his father's ; and in 
this feeble and emaciated state, walked abroad, from day to day, look- 
ing like misery personified, and pouring his lamentations into the ears 
of his friends, who were happy to confer those little acts of kindness 
which afforded to him some momentary consolation." 

Even " during this period of unhoused and disconsolate 
wretchedness," when the taper was fast sinking in the socket, 
he was still capable of poetical excitement. At the request of 
the " Jockey Club," he undertook to write a song for their an- 
niversary dinner. His enfeebled imagination faltered at the 
effort, until, spurred on by the last moment, he aroused himself 
into a transient glow of composition, executed the task, and 
then threw by the pen forever. 

It is worthy of mention, that under all this accumulation of 
penury, despondency, and sickness, the passion still remained 
for one species of amusement, which addresses itself chiefly to 
the imagination ; or rather, perhaps, the habit remained after 
die passion had subsided. He attended the theatre but two 
evenings before his death. This was the last gleam of solitary 
pleasure ; on the following day, feeling his end approaching, 



312 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

he crawled to an " attic chamber in his father's house," as to 
one of those retreats — 

" Where lonely want retires to die." 

Here he languished until the next evening, when, in the pres- 
ence of his family and friends, he expired without a struggle or 
a groan. 

Such is a brief sketch of the biography of Thomas Treat 
Paine, — a man calculated to flourish in the sunshine of life, 
but running to waste and ruin in the shade. We have been 
beguiled into a more particular notice of this part of the work, 
from the interest which it excited, and the strong moral picture 
which it presented. And indeed the biography of authors is 
important in another point of view, as throwing a great light 
upon the state of literature and refinement of a nation. In a 
country where authors are few, any tract of literary anecdote, 
like the present, is valuable, as adding to the scanty materials 
from which future writers will be enabled to trace our advance- 
ment in letters and the arts. Hereafter, curiosity may be in- 
terested to gather information concerning these early adven- 
turers in literature, not because they may have any great merit 
in their works, but because they were the first to adventure ; as 
we are curious about the early settlers of our country, not from 
their eminence of character, but because they were the first 
that settled. 

In looking back upon the life of Mr. Paine, we scarcely 
know whether his misfortunes are to be attributed so much to 
his love of literature, as to his want of discretion and practical 
good sense. He was a man that seemed to live for the mo- 
ment ; drawing but little instruction from the past, and casting 
but careless glances towards the future. So far as relates to 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 313 

him, his country stands acquitted in its literary character ; for 
certainly, as far as he made himself useful in his range of tal- 
ents, he was amply remunerated. 

The character given of him by his last biographer is highly 
interesting, and evinces that quick sensibility and openness to 
transient impressions, incident to a man more under the domin- 
ion of the fancy than the judgment. 

" To speak of Mr. Paine as a man ; hie labor, hoc opus est. In his 
intercourse with the world, his earliest impressions were rarely correct. 
His vivid imagination, in his first interviews, undervalued or overrated 
almost every individual with whom he came in contact ; but when a 
protracted acquaintance had effaced early impressions, his judgment 
recovered its tone, and no man brought his associates to a fairer scru- 
tiny, or could delineate their characteristics with greater exactness. 

. Nidlius addictusjitrare, in verba, magistri ; 

and when he had once formed a deliberate opinion, without a change 
of circumstances, it is not known that he ever renounced it. Studious 
to please, he was only impatient of obtrusive folly, impertinent pre- 
sumption, or idle speculation. His friendships were cordial, and his 
good genius soon rectified the precipitance of his enmities. To con- 
flicting propositions he listened with attention ; heard his own opinions 
contested with complacency, and replied with courtesy. No root of 
bitterness ever quickened in his mind. If injured, he was placable ; 

if offended, he 

.... showed a hasty spark, 
And straight was cold again. 

Parcere subjectis et debellare superbos 

was in strict unison with the habitual elevation of his feelings. Such 
services as it was in his power to render to others, he performed with 
manly zeal ; and their value was enhanced by being generally ren- 
iered where they were most needed ; and through life he cherished a 
lively gratitude towards those from whom he had received benefits." 



314: ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

On his irregular habits his biographer remarks in palliation, 
" He sensibly felt, and clearly foresaw, the consequences of 
their continuous indulgence, and passed frequent resolutions of 
reformation ; but daily embarrassments shook the resolves of 
his seclusion, and reform was indefinitely postponed. He urged 
as an excuse for delaying the Herculean task, that it was im- 
possible to commence it while perplexed with difficulty and 
surrounded with distress. Instead of rising with an elastic 
power, and throwing the incumbent pressure from his shoul- 
ders, he succumbed under its accumulating weight, until he 
became insuperably recumbent ; and vital action was daily pre- 
cariously sustained by administering ' the extreme medicine of 
the constitution for its daily food.' " 

We come now to the most ungracious part of our undertak- 
ing, — that of considering the literary character of the de- 
ceased. This is rendered the more delicate, from the excessive 
eulogiums passed on him in the enthusiasm of friendship, by 
his biographers, and which make us despair of yielding any 
praise that can approach to their ideas of his deserts. 

We are told that Dryden was Mr. Paine's favorite author, and 
in some measure his prototype ; but he appears to have admired 
rather than to have studied him. Like all those writers who 
take up some particular author as a model, a degree of bigotry 
has entered into his devotion, which made him blind to the 
faults of his original ; or rather, these faults became beauties 
in his eyes. Such, for instance, is that propensity to far-sought 
allusions and forced conceits. Had he studied Dryden in con- 
nection with the literature of his day, contrasting him with the 
poets who preceded him, and those who were his contemporaries, 
Mr. Paine would have discovered that these were faults which 
Dryden reprobated himself. They were the lingering traces 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 315 

of a taste which he was himself endeavoring to abolish. Dry- 
den was a great reformer of English poetry ; not merely by 
Improving the versification, and taming the rude roughness of 
the language into smoothness and harmony ; but by abolishing 
from it those metaphysical subtleties, those strange analogies 
and extravagant combinations, which had been the pride and 
study of the old school. Thus struggling to cure others and 
himself of these excesses, it is not surprising that some of 
them still lurked about his writings ; it is rather a matter of 
surprise that the number should be so inconsiderable. 

These, however, seem to have caught the ardent and ill-reg- 
ulated imagination of Mr. Paine, and to have given a tincture 
to the whole current of his writings. We find him continually 
aiming at fine thoughts, fine figures, and epigrammatic point. 
The censure that Johnson passes on his great prototype, may 
be applied with tenfold justice to him: "His delight was in 
wild and daring sallies of sentiment, — in the irregular and 
eccentric violence of wit. He delighted to tread upon the 
brink of meaning, where light and darkness begin to mingle ; 
to approach the precipice of absurdity, and hover over the 
abyss of unideal vacancy." His verses are often so dizened 
out with embroidery, that the subject-matter is lost in the orna- 
ment — the idea is confused by the illustration ; or rather, in- 
stead of one plain, distinct idea being presented to the mind, 
we are bewildered with a score of similitudes. Such, for in- 
stance, is the case with the following passage, taken at random, 
and which is intended to be descriptive of misers : — 

" In life's dark cell, pale burns their glimmering soul: 
A rush-light warms the winter of the pole. 
To chill and cheerless solitude confined, 
No spring of virtue thaws the ice of mind. 



316 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

They creep in blood, as frosty streamlets flow, 
And freeze with life, as dormice sleep in snow. 
Like snails they bear their dungeons on their backs,- 
And shut out light — to save a window-tax! " 

His figures and illustrations are often striking and beautiful, 
but too often far-fetched and extravagant. He had always 
plenty at command, and, indeed, every thought that he con- 
ceived drew after it a cluster of similies. Among these he 
either had not the talent to discriminate, or the self-denial to 
discard. Everything that entered his mind was transferred to 
his page ; trope followed trope, illustration was heaped on illus- 
tration, ornament outvied ornament, until what at first prom- 
ised to be fine, ended in being tawdry. 

Of his didactic poems, one of the most prominent is the 
" Ruling Passion." It contains many passages of striking 
merit, but is loaded with epithet, and distorted by constant 
straining after epigram and eccentricity. The author seems 
never content unless he be sparkling ; the reader is continually 
perplexed to know what he means, and sometimes disappointed, 
when he does find out, to discover that he means so little. It 
is one of the properties of poetic genius to give consequence 
to trifles. By a kind of magic power, it swells things up be- 
yond their natural dimensions, and decks them out with a 
splendor of dress and coloring that completely hides their real 
insignificance. Pigmy thoughts that crept in prose, start up 
into gigantic size in poetry ; and strutting in lofty epithets, 
inflated with hyperbole, and glittering with fine figures, are apt 
to take the imagination by surprise and dazzle the judgment. 
The steady eye of scrutiny, however, soon penetrates the glare ; 
and when the thought has shrunk back to its real dimensions, 
vvhat appeared to be oracular, turns out to be a truism. 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 317 

As an instance of this we will quote the following passage : — 

" Heroes and bards, who nobler flights have won 
Than Caesar's eagles, or the Mantuan swan, 
From eldest era share the common doom ; 
The sun of glory shines but on the tomb 
Firm as the Mede, the stern decree subdues 
The brightest pageant of the proudest Muse. 
Man's noblest powers could ne'er the law revoke, 
Though Handel harmonized what Chatham spoke; 
Though tuneful Morton's magic genius graced 
The Hyblean melody of Merry's taste ! 

" Time, the stern censor, talisman of fame, 
With rigid justice portions praise and shame: 
And, while his laurels, reared where genius grew, 
'Mid wide oblivion's lava bloom anew; 
Oft will his chymic fire, in distant age 
Elicit spots, unseen on ancient page. 
So the famed sage, who plunged in ^Etna's flame, 
'Mid pagan deities enshrined his name; 
Till from the iliac mountain's crater thrown, 
The Martyr's sandal cost the God his crown." — P. 187. 

Here the simple thought conveyed in this gorgeous page, as 
far as we can rake it out from among the splendid rubbish, is 
this, that fame is tested by time ; a truth, than which scarcely 
any is more familiar, and which the author, from the resem- 
blance of the fourth line, and the tenor of those which pre- 
ceded it, had evidently seen much more touchingly expressed 
in the elegy of Gray. 

The characters in this poem, which are intended to exem- 
plify a ruling passion, are trite and commonplace. The pedant, 
the deluded female, the fop, the old maid, the miser, are all 
hackneyed subjects of satire, and are treated in a hackneyed 

manner. If these old dishes are to be served up again, we 
14 



818 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

might at least expect that the sauces would be new. It is evi- 
dent Mr. Paine drew his characters from books rather than 
from real life. His fop flourishes the cane and snuff-box as in 
the days of Sir Fopling Flutter. His old maid is sprigged and 
behooped, and hides behind her fan according to immemorial 
usage ; and in his other characters we trace the same family 
likeness that marks the descendants of the heroes and heroines 
of ancient British poetry. 

The following description of the Savoyard is sprightly and 
picturesque, though, unfortunately for the author, it reminds us 
of the Swiss peasant of Goldsmith, and forces upon us the con- 
trast between that sparkling poetry which dazzles the fancy, 
and those simple, homefelt strains, which sink to the heart, and 
are treasured up there : — 

" To fame unknown, to happier fortune born, 
The blithe Savoyard hails the peep of morn, 
And Avhile the fluid gold his eye surveys, 
The hoary glaciers fling their diamond blaze; 
Geneva's broad lake rushes from its shores, 
Arve gently murmurs, and the rough Rhone roars. 
'Mid the cleft Alps, his cabin peers from high, 
Hangs o'er the clouds, and perches on the sky. 
O'er fields of ice, across the headlong flood, 
From cliff to cliff he bounds in fearless mood ; 
While, far beneath, a night of tempest lies, 
Deep thunder mutters, harmless lightning flies, 
While, far above, from battlements of snow, 
Loud torrents tumble on the world below; 
On rustic reed he wakes a merrier tune, 
Than the lark warbles on the ' Ides of June.' 
Far off let glory's clarion shrilly swell; 
He loves the music of his pipe as well. 
Let shouting millions crown the hero's head, 
And Pride her tessellated pavement tread, 
More happy far, this denizen of air 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. brJ 

Enjoys what Nature condescends to spare; 

His days are jocund, undisturbed his nights, 

His spouse contents him and his mule delights." — P. 184. 

The conclusion of this very descriptive passage partakes 
lamentably of the bathos. We cannot but smile at the last 
line, where he has paid the conjugal feelings of his hero but a 
sorry compliment, making him more delighted with his mule 
than with the wife of his bosom. 

The " Invention of Letters " is another poem, where the au- 
thor seems to have exerted the full scope of his talents. It 
shows that adroitness in the tricks of composition, that love for 
meretricious ornament, and at the same time that amazing store 
of imagery and illustration, which characterize this writer. We 
see in it many fine flights of thought, and brave sallies of the 
imagination, but at the same time a superabundance of the lus- 
cious faults of poetry ; and we rise from it with augmented re- 
gret that so rich and prolific a genius had not been governed 
by a purer taste. The following eulogium of Faustus is a fair 
specimen of the author's beauties and defects : — 

"Egyptian shrubs, in hands of cook or priest, 
A king could mummy, or enrich a feast ; 
Faustus, great shade ! a nobler leaf imparts, 
Embalms all ages, and preserves all arts. 

The ancient scribe, employed by bards divine, 
With faltering finger traced the lingering line. 
So few the scrivener's dull profession chose, 
With tedious toil each tardy transcript rose ; 
And scarce the Iliad, penned from oral rhyme, 
Grew with the bark that bore its page sublime. 
But when the press, with fertile womb supplies 
The useful sheet, on thousand wings it flies; 
Bound to no climate, to no age confined, 
The pinioned volume spreads to all mankind. 

No sacred power the Cachnean art could claim, 



320 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

O'er time to triumph, and defy the flame: 
In one sad day a Goth could ravage more 
Than ages wrote, or ages could restore. 

The Roman helmet, or the Grecian lyre, 
A realm might conquer, or a realm inspire; 
Then sink, oblivious, in the mouldering dust, 
With those who blessed them, and with those who curst- 
What guide had then the lettered pilgrim led 
Where Plato moralized, where Caesar bled? 
What page had told, in lasting record wrought. 
The world who butchered, or the world who taught? 

Thine was the mighty power, immortal sage ! 
To burst the cerements of each buried age. 
Through the drear sepulchre of sunless Time, 
Rich with the trophied wrecks of many a clime, 
Thy daring genius broke the pathless way, 
And brought the glorious relics forth to day." — P. 165. 

Of the lyrical poetry of Mr. Paine we can but give the same 
mixed opinion. It sometimes comes near being very fine, at 
other times is bombastic, and too often is obscure by far-fetched 
metaphors. The enthusiasm which is the life and spirit of 
this kind of poetry, certainly allows great license to the imagi- 
nation, and permits the poet to use bolder figures and stronger 
exaggerations than any other species of serious composition ; 
but he should be wary that he be not carried too far by the 
fervor of his feelings, and that he run not into obscurity and 
extravagance. In listening to lyrical poetry, we have to de- 
pend entirely on the ear to comprehend the subject ; and 
as verse follows verse without allowing time for meditation, 
it is next to impossible for the auditor to extricate the mean- 
ing, if it be entangled in metaphor. The thoughts, therefore, 
should be clear and striking, and the figures, however lofty and 
magnificent, yet of that simple kind that flash at once upon the 
mind. 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 321 

The follow stanza is one of those that come near being ex- 
tremely beautiful. The versification is swelling and melodious, 
and captivates the ear with the luxury of sound ; the imagery 
is sublime, but the meaning a little obscure. 

" The sea is valor's charter, 

A nation's wealthiest mine: 
His foaming caves when ocean bares, 

Not pearls, but heroes shine; 
Aloft they mount the midnight surge, 

Where shipwrecked spirits roam, 
And oft the knell is heard to swell, 

Where bursting billows foam. 
Each storm a race of heroes rears, 

To guard their native home." — P. 275. 

The ode entitled "Rise Columbia," possesses more simpli- 
city than most of his poems. Several of the verses are de- 
serving of much praise, both for the sentiment and the com- 
position. 

" Remote from realms of rival fame, 

Thy bulwark is thy mound of waves ; 
The sea, thy birthright, thou must claim, 
Or, subject, yield the soil it laves. 

Nor yet, though skilled, delight in arms ; 

Peace, and her offspring Arts, be thine; 
The face of Freedom scarce has charms, 

When on her cheeks no dimples shine. 

While Fame, for thee, her wreath entwines, 

To bless, thy nobler triumph prove ; 
And, though the eagle haunts thy pines, 

Beneath thv willows shield the dove. 



Revered in arms, in peace humane, 
No shore nor realm shall bound thy sway; 



822 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

While all the virtues own thy reign, 
And subject elements obey! " 

The ode of " Spain, Commerce, and Freedom," is a mere 
conflagration of fancy. What shall we say to such a " melting 
hot — hissing hot " stanza as the following? — 

" Bright Day of the world ! dart thy lustre afar ! 

Fire the north with thy heat ! gild the south with thy splendor ! 
With thy glance light the torch of redintegrant war, 
Till the dismembered earth effervesce and regender 
Through each zone may'st thou roll, 
Till thy beams at the Pole 
Melt Philosophy's Ice in the sea of the soul! " 

We have unwarily exceeded our intended limits in this ar- 
ticle, and must now bring it to a conclusion. From the exam- 
ination which we have given Mr. Paine's writings, we can 
by no means concur in the opinion that he is an author on 
whom the nation should venture its poetic claims. His nat- 
ural requisites were undoubtedly great, and had they been 
skilfully managed, might have raised him to an enviable emi- 
nence. He possessed a brilliant imagination, but not great 
powers of reflection. He thinks often acutely, seldom pro- 
foundly ; indeed, there was such a constant wish to be ingen- 
ious and pungent, that he was impatient of the regular flow 
of thought and feeling, and seemed dissatisfied with every 
line that did not contain a paradox, a simile, or an apothegm. 
There appears also to have been an indistinctness in his con- 
ceptions ; his mind teemed with vague ideas, with shadows 
of thought, which he could not accurately embody, and the 
consequence was a frequent want of precision in his writings. 
He had read much and miscellaneously; and having a tena- 
cious memory, was enabled to illustrate his thoughts by a 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 323 

thousand analogies and similies, drawn from books, and often 
to enrich his poems with the thoughts of others. Indeed, his 
acquired treasures were often a disadvantage ; not having a 
simple, discriminating taste, he could not select from among 
them ; and being a little ostentatious of his wealth, was too 
apt to pour it in glittering profusion upon his page. 

If we have been too severe in our animadversions on this 
author's faults, we can only say that the high encomiums of 
his biographers, and the high assumptions of the author him- 
self, which are evident from the style of his writings, obliged us 
to judge of him by an elevated standard. Mr. Paine ventured 
in the lofty walks of composition, and appears continually to 
have been measuring himself with the masters of the art. His 
biographers have even hinted at placing him "on the same 
shelf with the prince of English rhyme," and thus, in a man- 
ner, have invited a less indulgent examination than, perhaps, 
might otherwise have been given. 

If, however, we are unjust in our censures, a little while 
will decide their futility. To the living every hour of repu- 
tation is important, as adding one hour of enjoyment to ex- 
istence ; but the fame of the dead, to be valuable, must be per- 
manent ; and it is in nowise impaired, if for a year or two the 
misrepresentations of criticism becloud its lustre. 

We assure the biographers of Mr. Paine that we heartily 
concur with them in the. wish to see one of our native poets 
rising to equal excellence with the immortal bards of Great 
Britain ; but we do not feel any restless anxiety on the sub- 
ject. We wait with hope, but we wait with patience. Of all 
writers a great poet is the rarest. Britain, with all her pat- 
ronage of literature, with her standing army of authors, has 
through a series of ages produced but a very, very few who 



32 I ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 

deserve the name. Can it, then, be a matter of surprise, or 
should it be of humiliation, that, in our country, where the 
literary ranks are so scanty, the incitements so small, and the 
advantages so inconsiderable, we should not yet have pro- 
duced a master in the art ? Let us rest satisfied : as far as 
the intellect of the nation has been exercised, we have fur- 
nished our full proportion of ordinary poets, and some that 
have even risen above mediocrity ; but a really great poet is 
the production of a century. 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

Odes, Naval Songs, and other occasional Poems. By Edwin 
C. Holland, Esq., Charleston. 

A small volume, with the above title, has been handed to 
us, with a request that it might be criticized. Though we do 
not profess the art and mystery of reviewing, and are not 
ambitious of being either wise or facetious at the expense 
of others, yet we feel a disposition to notice the present 
work, because it is a specimen of one branch of literature at 
present very popular throughout our country, and also because 
the author, who, we understand, is quite young, gives proof of 
very considerable poetical talent, and is in great danger of 
being spoiled. 

We apprehend, from various symptoms about his work, that 
he has for some time past received great honors from circles 
of literary ladies and gentlemen, and that he has great facility 
at composition — we find, moreover, that he has written for 
public papers under the signature of " Orlando ; " and above 
all, that a prize has been awarded to one of his poems, in a 
kind of poetical lottery, cunningly devised by an " eminent 
bookseller." 

These, we must confess, are melancholy disadvantages to 

start withal ; and many a youthful poet of great promise has 

been utterly ruined by misfortunes of much inferior magnitude. 
14* 



326 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

We trust, however, that in the present case they are not with- 
out remedy, and that the author is not so far gone in the evil 
habit of publishing, as to be utterly beyond reclaim. Still we 
feel the necessity of extending immediate relief, from a hint he 
gives us on the cover of his book, that the present poems are 
" presented merely as specimens of his manner, and comprise 
but a very small portion " of those he has on hand. This in- 
formation really startled us ; we beheld in imagination a 
mighty mass of odes, songs, sonnets, and acrostics, impending 
in awful volume over our heads, and threatening every instant 
to flutter down, like a theatrical snow-storm of white paper. 
To avert so fearful an avalanche have we hastened to take pen 
in hand, determined to risk the author's displeasure, by giving 
him good advice, and to deliver him, if possible, uninjured out 
of the hands both of his admirers and his patron. 

The main piece of advice we would give him is, to lock up 
all his remaining writings, and to abstain most abstemiously 
from publishing for some years to come. We know that this 
will appear very ungracious counsel, and we have not very 
great hope that it will be adopted. We are well aware of the 
eagerness of young authors to hurry into print, and that the 
Muse is too fond of present pay, and " present pudding, 1 ' to 
brook voluntarily the postponement of reward. Besides, this 
early and exuberant foliage of the mind is peculiar to warm 
sensibilities and lively fancies, in which the principles of 
fecundity are so strong as to be almost irrepressible. The 
least ray of popular admiration sets all the juices in motion, 
produces a bursting forth of buds and blossoms, and a pro- 
fusion of vernal and perishable vegetation. But there is no 
greater source of torment to a writer, than the flippancies of 
his juvenile Muse. The sins and follies of his youth arise in 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 327 

loathsome array, to disturb the quiet of his maturer years, and 
he is perpetually haunted by the spectres of the early murders 
he has perpetrated on good English and good sense. 

We have no intention to discourage Mr. Holland from his 
poetic career. On the contrary, it is in consequence of the 
good opinion we entertain of his genius ; that we are solicitous 
that it should be carefully nurtured, wholesomely disciplined, 
and trained up to full and masculine vigor, rather than dis- 
sipated and enfeebled by early excesses. We think we can 
discern in his writings strong marks of amiable, and generous, 
and lofty sentiment, of ready invention, and great brilliancy of 
expression. These are as yet obscured by a false, or rather 
puerile taste, which time and attention will improve, but it is 
necessary that time and attention should be employed. Were 
his faults merely those of mediocrity we should despair, for 
there is no such thing as fermenting a dull mind into anything 
like poetic inspiration ; but we think the effervescence of this 
writer's fancy will at a future day settle down into something 
substantially excellent. Rising genius always shoots forth its 
rays from among clouds and vapors, but these will gradually 
roll away and disappear, as it ascends to its steady and meridian 
lustre. 

One thing which pleases us in the songs in this collection is, 
that they have more originality than we commonly meet with 
in our national songs. We begin to think that it is a much 
more difficult thing to write a good song than to fight a good 
battle ; for our tars have achieved several splendid victories in 
a short space of time ; but, notwithstanding the thousand pens 
that have been drawn forth in every part of the Union, we do 
not recollect a single song of really sterling merit that has 
been written on the occasion. Nothing is more offensive than 



328 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

a certain lawless custom which prevails among our patriotic 
songsters, of seizing upon the noble songs of Great Britain, 
mangling and disfiguring them, with pens more merciless than 
Indian scalping-knives, and then passing them off for American 
songs. This may be an idea borrowed from the custom of our 
savage neighbors, of adopting prisoners into their families, and 
so completely taking them to their homes and hearts, as almost 
to consider them as children of their own begetting. At any 
rate, it is a practice worthy of savage life and savage ideas of 
property. We have witnessed such horrible distortions of 
sense and poetry ; we have seen the fine members of an 
elegant stanza so mangled and wrenched, in order to apply it 
to this country, that our very hearts ached with sympathy and 
vexation. We are continually annoyed with the figure of 
poor Columbia, an honest, awkward, dowdy sort of dame, 
thrust into the place of Britannia, and made to wield the 
trident, and " rule the waves," and play off a thousand clumsy 
ceremonies before company, as mal-adroitly as a worthy trades- 
man's wife, enacting a fine lady or a tragedy queen. 

Besides, there is in this a pitifulness of spirit, an appearance 
of abject poverty of mind, that would be degrading if it really 
belonged to the nation. Nay, more, there is a positive dis- 
honesty in it. We may, if we choose, plunder the bodies of 
our enemies, whom we have fairly conquered in the field of 
battle ; and we may strut about, uncouthly arrayed in their 
garments, with their coats swinging to our heels, and their 
boots " a world too wide for our shrunk shanks," but the same 
privilege does not extend to literature ; and however our puny 
poetasters may flaunt for a while in the pilfered garbs of their 
gigantic neighbors, they may rest assured that if there should 
be a tribunal hereafter to try the crimes of authors, they will 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 329 

be considered as mere poetical highwaymen, and condemned 
to swing most loftily for their offences. 

It is really insulting to tell this country, as some of these 
varlets do, that she " needs no bulwarks, no towers along the 
steep," when there is a cry from one end of the Union to the 
other for the fortifying our seaports and the defence of our 
coast, and when every post brings us intelligence of the enemy 
depredating in our bays and rivers ; and it is still more insult- 
ing to tell her that " her home is on the deep," which, if it 
really be the case, only proves that at present she is turned out 
of doors. No, if we really must have national songs, let them 
be of our own manufacturing, however coarse. We would 
rather hear our victories celebrated in the merest dogrel that 
sprang from native invention, than beg, borrow, or steal from 
others, the thoughts and words in which to express our exulta- 
tion. By tasking our own powers, and relying entirely on 
ourselves, we shall gradually improve and rise to poetical in- 
dependence ; but this practice of appropriating the thoughts 
of others, of getting along by contemptible shifts and literary 
larcenies, prevents native exertion, and produces absolute im- 
poverishment. It is in literature as in the accumulation of 
private fortune ; the humblest beginning should not dishearten ; 
much may be clone by persevering industry or spirited en- 
terprise ; but he who depends on borrowing will never grow 
rich, and he who indulges in theft will ultimately come to the 
gallows. 

We are glad to find that the writer before us is innocent of 
these enormous sins against honesty and good sense ; but we 
would warn him against another evil, into which young writers, 
and young men, are very prone to fall — we mean bad com- 
pany. We are apprehensive that the companions of his 



330 EDWIN C HOLLAND. 

literary leisure have been none of the most profitable, and 
that be has been trifling too much with the fantastic gentry of 
the Delia Cruscan school, revelling among flowers and hunt- 
ing butterflies, when he should have been soberly walking, like 
a duteous disciple, in the footsteps of the mighty masters of 
his art. We are led to this idea from seeing in his poems 
the portentous names of " the blue eyed Myra," and " Rosa 
Matilda," and from reading of " lucid vests veiling snowy 
breasts," and " satin sashes," and " sighs of rosy perfume," 
and "trembling eve-star beam, through some light clouds 
glory seen," (which, by the bye, is a rhyme very much like that 
of " muffin and dumpling,") and — 

" The sweetest of perfumes that languishing flies 
Like a kiss on the nectarous morning tide air." 

Now all this kind of poetry is rather late in the day — the 
fashion has gone by. A man may as well attempt to figure as 
a fine gentleman in a pea-green silk coat, and pink satin 
breeches, and powdered head, and paste buckles, and sharp- 
toed shoes, and all the finery of Sir Fopling Flutter, as to 
write in the style of Delia Crusca. Gifford has long since 
brushed away all this trumpery. 

We think also the author has rather perverted his fancy by 
reading the amatory effusions of Moore ; which, whatever be 
the magic of their imagery and versification, breathe a spirit of 
heartless sensuality and soft voluptuousness beneath the tone 
of vigorous and virtuous manhood. 

This rhapsodizing about " brilliant pleasures," and " hours 
of bliss," and " humid eyelids," and " ardent kisses," is, after 
all, mighty cold-blooded, silly stuff It may do to tickle the 
ears of love-sick striplings and romantic milliners ; but one 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 3.31 

verse describing pure domestic affection, or tender innocent 
love, from the pen of Burns, speaks more to the heart than all 
the meretricious rhapsodies of Moore. 

We doubt if in the whole round of rapturous scenes, dwelt 
on with elaborate salacity by the modern Anacreon, one passage 
can be found, combining equal eloquence of language, delicacy 
of imagery, and impassioned tenderness, with the following 
picture of the interview and parting of two lovers : — 

" How sweetly bloomed the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie : 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

" Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And pledging oft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 

" O pale, pale now those rosy lips, 

1 aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary." 

Throughout the whole of the foregoing stanzas we would 
remark the extreme simplicity of the language, the utter ab- 



332 



EDWIN C HOLLAND. 



sence of all false coloring, of those " roseate hues," and " am- 
brosial odors," and " purple mists," that steam from the pages of 
our voluptuous poets, to intoxicate the weak brains of their 
admirers. Burns depended on the truth and tenderness of his 
ideas, on that deep-toned feeling which is the very soul of 
poetry. To use his own admirably descriptive words, — 

" His rural loves are Nature's sel, 
JSTae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell, 

O 1 wvtchirC love, 
That charm, that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move." 

But the chief fault which infests the style of the poems be- 
before us, is a passion by hyperbole, and for the glare of 
extravagant images and flashing phrases. This taste for gor- 
geous finery and violent metaphor prevails throughout our 
country, and is characteristic of the early efforts of literature. 
Our national songs are full of ridiculous exaggeration, and 
frothy rant and commonplace bloated up into fustian. The 
writers seem to think that huge words and mountainous 
figures constitute the sublime. Their puny thoughts are 
made to sweat under loads of cumbrous imagery, and now and 
then they are so wrapt up in conflagrations, and blazes, and 
thunders and lightnings, that, like Nick Bottom's hero, they 
seem to have " slipt on a brimstone shirt, and are all on fire ! " 

We would advise these writers, if they wish to see what is 
really grand and forcible in patriotic minstrelsy, to read the 
national songs of Campbell, and the " Bannock-Burn " of Burns, 
where there is the utmost grandeur of thought conveyed in 
striking but perspicuous language. It is much easier to be 
fine than correct in writing. A rude and imperfect taste 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 333 

always heaps on decoration, and seeks to dazzle by a profusion 
of brilliant incongruities. But true taste always evinces itself 
in pure and noble simplicity, and a fitness and chasteness of 
ornament. The Muses of the ancients are described as beautiful 
females, exquisitely proportioned, simply attired, with no orna- 
ments but the diamond clasps that connected their garments ; 
but were we to paint the Muse of one of our popular poets, we 
should represent her as a pawnbroker's window, with rings on 
every finger, and loaded with borrowed and heterogenous finery. 
One cause of the epidemical nature of our literary errors, is 
the proneness of our authors to borrow from each other, and 
thus to interchange faults, and give a circulation to absurdities. 
It is dangerous always for a writer to be very studious of 
contemporary publications, which have not passed the ordeal of 
time and criticism. He should fix his eye on those models 
which have been scrutinized, and of the faults and excellences 
of which he is fully apprized. We think we can trace, in the 
popular songs of the volume before us, proofs that the author 
has been very conversant with the works of Robert Treat 
Paine, a late American writer of very considerable merit, but 
who delighted in continued explosions of fancy and glitter of 
language. As we do not censure wantonly, or for the sake of 
finding fault, we shall point to one of the author's writings, 
on which it is probable he most values himself, as it is the 
one which publicly received the prize in the Bookseller's Lot- 
tery. We allude to " The Pillar of Glory." We are like- 
wise induced to notice this particularly, because we find it 
going the rounds of the Union, — strummed at pianos, sang 
at concerts, and roared forth lustily at public dinners. Having 
this universal currency, and bearing the imposing title of 
' Prize Poem," which is undoubtedly equal to the " Tower 



334 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

Stamp," it stands a great chance of being considered abroad as 
a prize production of one of our Universities, and at home as 
a standard poem, worthy the imitation of all tyros in the art. 
The first stanza is very fair, and indeed is one of those pas- 
sages on which we found our good opinion of the author's 
genius. The last line is really noble. 

" Hail to the heroes whose triumphs have brightened 
The darkness which shrouded America's name ! 
Long shall their valor in battle that lightened, 
Live in the brilliant escutcheons of fame! 
Dark Avhere the torrents flow, 
And the rude tempests blow, 
The stormy-clad Spirit of Albion raves ; 
Long shall she mourn the day, 
When in the vengeful fray, 
Liberty walked, like a god, on the waves." 

The second stanza, however, sinks from this vigorous and 
perspicuous tone. We have the " halo and lustre of story " 
curling round the " wave of the ocean ; " a mixture of ideal 
and tangible objects wholly inadmissible in good poetry. But 
the great mass of sin lies in the third stanza, where the writer 
rises into such a glare and confusion of figure as to be almost 
incomprehensible. 

" The pillar of glory the sea that enlightens, 
Shall last till eternity rocks on its base ! 
The splendor of fame its waters that brightens, 
Shall follow the footsteps of time in his race ! 
Wide o'er the stormy deep, 
Where the rude surges sweep, 
Its lustre shall circle the brows of the brave ! 
Honor shall give it light, 
Triumph shall keep it bright, 
Long as in battle we meet on the wave ! " 



EDWIN C. HOLLAND. OOO 

We confess that we were sadly puzzled to understand the 
nature of this ideal pillar, that seemed to have set the sea in 
a blaze, and was to last " till eternity rocks on its base," which 
we suppose is, according to a vulgar phrase, " forever and a day 
after." Our perplexity was increased by the cross light from 
the " splendor of fame," which, like a foot-boy with a lantern, 
was to jog on after the footsteps of Time ; who it appears 
was to run a race against himself on the water — and as to 
the other lights and gleams that followed, they threw us into 
complete bewilderment. It is true, after beating about for 
some time, we at length landed on what we suspected to be the 
author's meaning ; but a worthy friend of ours, who read the 
passage with great attention, maintains that this pillar of glory 
which enlightened the sea can be nothing more nor less than 
a light-house. 

We do not certainly wish to indulge in improper or illiberal 
levity. It is not the author's fault that his poem has received 
a prize, and been elevated into unfortunate notoriety. Were 
its faults matters of concernment merely to himself, we should 
barely have hinted at them ; but the poem has been made, in a 
manner, a national poem, and in attacking it we attack gen- 
erally that prevailing taste among our poetical writers for 
excessive ornament, for turgid extravagance, and vapid hy- 
perbole. We wish in some small degree to counteract the 
mischief that may be done to national literature by eminent 
booksellers crowning inferior effusions as prize poems, setting 
them to music, and circulating them widely through the 
country. We wish also, by a little good-humored rebuke, to 
stay the hurried career of a youth of talent and promise, whom 
we perceive lapsing into error, and liable to be precipitated for 
ward by the injudicious applauses of his friends. 



336 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

We therefore repeat our advice to Mr. Holland, that he 
abstain from further publication until he has cultivated his 
taste and ripened his mind. We earnestly exhort him rigor- 
ously to watch over his youthful Muse ; who, we suspect, is 
very spirited and vivacious, subject to quick excitement, of 
great pruriency of feeling, and a most uneasy inclination to 
breed. Let him in the mean while diligently improve him- 
self in classical studies, and in an intimate acquaintance with 
the best and simplest British poets, and the soundest British 
critics. We do assure him that really fine poetry is exceed- 
ing rare, and not to be written copiously nor rapidly. Mid- 
dling poetry may be produced in any quantity ; the press 
groans with it, the shelves of circulating libraries are loaded 
with it ; but who reads merely middling poetry ? Only two 
kinds can possibly be tolerated, — the very good, or the very 
bad, — one to be read with enthusiasm, the other to be laughed 
at. 

We have in the course of this article quoted him rather 
unfavorably, but it was for the purpose of general criticism, 
not individual censure ; before we conclude, it is but justice to 
give a specimen of what we consider his best manner. The 
following stanzas are taken from elegiac lines on the death of a 
young lady. The comparison of a beautiful female to a flower 
is obvious and frequent in poetry, but we think it is managed 
here with uncommon delicacy and consistency, and great 
novelty of thought and manner : — 

" There was a flower of beauteous Jbirth, 
Of lavish charms, and chastened die ; 
It smiled upon the lap of earth, 
And caught the gaze of every eye. 



EDWIN C HOLLAND. 337 

" The vernal breeze, whose step is seen 
Imprinted in the early dew, 
Ne'er brushed a flower of brighter beam, 
Or nursed a bud of lovelier hue ! 

"It blossomed not in dreary wild, 
In darksome glen, or desert bower, 
But grew, like Flora's fa v' rite child, 
In sunbeam soft and fragrant shower. 

" The graces loved with chastened light 
To flush its pure celestial bloom, 
And all its blossoms were so bright, 
It seemed not formed to die so soon. 

44 Youth round the flow'ret ere it fell 
In armor bright was seen to stray. 
And beauty said, her magic spell 
Should keep its perfume from decay. 

" The parent-stalk from which it sprung, 
Transported as its halo spread, 
In holy umbrage o'er it hung, 
And tears of heaven -born rapture shed. 

44 Yet, fragile flower ! thy blossom bright, 
Though guarded by a magic spell, 
Like a sweet beam of evening light, 
In lonely hour of tempest fell. 

44 The death-blast of the winter air, 

The cold frost and the night-wind came, 
They nipt thy beauty once so fair ! — 
It shall not bloom on earth again! " 

From a general view of the poems of Mr. Holland, it is 
evident that he has the external requisites for poetry in abun- 
dance, — he has fine images, fine phrases, and ready versification ; 
he must only learn to think with fulness and precision, and he 



838 EDWIN C. HOLLAND. 

will write splendidly. As we have already hinted, we consider 
his present productions but the blossoms of his genius, and 
like blossoms they will fall and perish ; but we trust that 
after some time of silent growth and gradual maturity, we 
shall see them succeeded by a harvest of rich and highly 
flavored fruit. 



WHEATON'8 HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

History of the Northmen, or Danes and Normans. London. 
8vo. 1831. 

We are misers in knowledge as in wealth. Open inexhaust- 
ible mines to us on every hand, yet we return to grope in the 
exhausted stream of past opulence, and sift its sands for ore ; 
place us in an age when history pours in upon us like an 
inundation and the events of a century are crowded into a 
lustre, yet we tenaciously hold on to the scanty records of 
foregone times, and often neglect the all-important present 
to discuss the possibility of the almost forgotten past. 

It is worthy of remark that this passion for the antiquated 
and the obsolete appears to be felt with increasing force in 
this country. It may be asked, what sympathies can tht 
native of a land, where everything is in its youth and fresh 
ness, have with the antiquities of the ancient hemisphere ' 
What inducement can he have to turn from the animates 
scene around him, and the brilliant perspective that breakr 
upon his imagination, to wander among the mouldering 
monuments of the olden world, and to call up its shadowy 
lines of kings and warriors from the dim twilight of tradi- 
tion ? — 

" Why seeks he, with unwearied toil. 

Through death's dark walls to urge his way, 
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, 

And lead oblivion into day? " 



340 wheaton's history of the Northmen. 

We answer, that he is captivated by the powerful charm 
of contrast. Accustomed to a land where everything is 
bursting into life, and history itself but in its dawning, antiq- 
uity has, in fact, for him the effect of novelty ; and the fad- 
ing but mellow glories of the past, which linger in the hori- 
zon of the Old World, relieve the eye, after being dazzled 
with the rising rays which sparkle up the firmament of the 
New. 

It is a mistake, too, that the political faith of a republican 
requires him, on all occasions, to declaim with bigot heat 
against the stately and traditional ceremonials, the storied 
pomps and pageants of other forms of government ; or even 
prevents him from, at times, viewing them with interest, as 
matters worthy of curious investigation. Independently of 
the themes they present for historical and philosophical in- 
quiry, he may regard them with a picturesque and poetical 
eye, as he regards the Gothic edifices rich with the elaborate 
ornaments of a gorgeous and intricate style of architecture, 
without wishing to exchange therefor the stern but proud 
simplicity of his own habitation ; or, as he admires the ro- 
mantic keeps and castles of chivalrous and feudal times, 
without desiring to revive the dangerous customs and warlike 
days in which they originated. To him the whole pageantry 
of emperors and kings, and nobles, and titled knights, is, 
as it were, a species of poetical machinery, addressing itself 
to his imagination, but no more affecting his faith than does 
the machinery of the heathen mythology affect the orthodoxy 
of the scholar who delights in the strains of Homor and 
Virgil, and wanders with enthusiasm among the crumbling 
temples and sculptured deities of Greece and Rome ; or do 
the fairy mythology of the East, and the demonology of the 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 341 

North, impair the Christian faith of the poet or the novelist 
who interweaves them in his fictions. 

We have been betrayed into these remarks, in consider- 
ing the work before us, where we find one of our country- 
men, and a thorough republican, investigating with minute 
attention some of the most antiquated and dubious tracts 
of European history, and treating of some of its exhausted 
and almost forgotten dynasties ; yet evincing throughout the 
enthusiasm of an antiquarian, the liberality of a scholar, and 
the enlightened toleration of a citizen of the world. 

The author of the work before us, Mr. Henry Wheaton, 
has for some years filled the situation of Charge d'Affaires 
at the court of Denmark. Since he has resided at Copen- 
hagen, he has been led into a course of literary and historic 
research, which has ended in the production of the present 
history of those Gothic and Teutonic people, who, inhabiting 
the northern regions of Europe, have so often and so suc- 
cessfully made inroads into other countries, more genial in 
climate and abundant in wealth. A considerable part of his 
book consists of what may be called conjectural or critical 
history, relating to remote and obscure periods of time, pre- 
vious to the introduction of Christianity, historiography, and 
the use of Roman letters among those northern nations. At 
the outset, therefore, it assumes something of an austere and 
antiquarian air, which may daunt and discourage that class 
of readers who are accustomed to find history carefully laid 
out in easy rambling walks through agreeable landscapes, 
where just enough of the original roughness is left to pro- 
duce the picturesque and romantic. Those, however, who 
have the courage to penetrate the dark and shadowy boundary 
of our author's work, grimly beset with hyperborean horrors, 

15 



342 wheaton's history of the Northmen. 

will find it resembling one of those enchanted forests de- 
scribed in northern poetry, — embosoming regions of won- 
der and delight, for such as have the hardihood to achieve 
the adventure. For our own part, we have been struck with 
the variety of adventurous incidents crowded into these pages, 
and with the abundance of that poetical material which is 
chiefly found in early history ; while many of the rude tra- 
ditions of the Normans, the Saxons, and the Danes have 
come to us with the captivating charms of early association, 
recalling the marvellous tales and legends that have delighted 
us in childhood. 

The first seven chapters may be regarded as preliminary 
to the narrative, or, more strictly, historical part of the book. 
They trace the scanty knowledge possessed by Greek and 
Roman antiquity of the Scandinavian North ; the earliest 
migrations from that quarter to the west, and south, and east 
of Europe ; the discovery of Iceland by the Norwegians ; 
with the singular circumstances which rendered that barren 
and volcanic isle, where ice and fire contend for mastery, the 
last asylum of Pagan faith and Scandinavian literature. In 
this wild region they lingered until the Latin alphabet super- 
seded the Runic character, when the traditionary poetry and 
oral history of the North were consigned to written records, 
and rescued from that indiscriminate destruction which over- 
whelmed them on the Scandinavian continent. 

The government of Iceland is described by our author 
as being more properly a patriarchal aristocracy than a re- 
public ; and he observes that the Icelanders, in consequence 
of their adherence to their ancient religion, cherished and 
cultivated the language and literature of their ancestors, and 
brought them to a degree of beauty and perfection which 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 343 

they never reached in the Christianized countries of the North, 
where the introduction of the learned languages produced 
feeble and awkward, though clasical imitation, instead of 
graceful and national originality. 

When, at the end of the tenth century, Christianity was 
at length introduced into the island, the national literature, 
though existing only in oral tradition, was full blown, and had 
attained too strong and deep a root in the affections of the 
people to be eradicated, and had given a charm and value to 
the language with which it was identified. The Latin letters, 
therefore, which accompanied the introduction of the Romish 
religion, were merely adapted to designate the sounds here- 
tofore expressed by Runic characters, and thus contributed 
to preserve in Iceland the ancient language of the North, 
when exiled from its parent countries of Scandinavia. To 
this fidelity to its ancient tongue, the rude and inhospitable 
shores of Iceland owe that charm which gives them an inex- 
haustible interest in the eyes of the antiquary, and endears 
them to the imagination of the poet. " The popular super- 
stitions," observes our author, " with which the mythology 
and poetry of the North are interwoven, continued still to 
linger in the sequestered glens of this remote island." 

The language in itself appears to have been worthy of 
this preservation, since we are told that " it bears in its inter- 
nal structure a strong resemblance to the Latin and Greek, 
and even to the ancient Persian and Sanscrit, and rivals in 
copiousness, flexibility, and energy, every modern tongue." 

Before the introduction of letters, all Scandinavian knowl- 
edge was perpetuated in oral tradition by their Skalds, who, 
like the rhapsodists of ancient Greece, and the bards of the 
Celtic tribes, were at once poets and historians. We boast 



31:4 WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

of the encouragement of letters and literary men in these 
days of refinement ; but where are they more honored and 
rewarded than they were among these barbarians of the 
North ? The Skalds, we are told, were the companions and 
chroniclers of kings, who entertained them in their trains, 
enriched them with rewards, and sometimes entered the lists 
with them in trials of skill in their art. They in a manner 
bound country to country, and people to people, by a de- 
lightful link of union, travelling about as wandering min- 
strels, from land to land, and often performing the office of 
ambassadors between hostile tribes. While thus applying 
the gifts of genius to their divine and legitimate ends, by 
calming the passions of men, and harmonizing their feelings 
into kindly sympathy, they were looked up to with mingled 
reverence and affection, and a sacred character was attached 
to their calling. Nay, in such estimation were they held, 
that they occasionally married the daughters of princes, and 
one of them was actually raised to a throne in the fourth 
century of the Christian era. 

It is true the Skalds were not always treated with equal 
deference, but were sometimes doomed to experience the usual 
caprice that attends upon royal patronage. We are told 
that Canute the Great retained several at his court, who 
were munificently rewarded for their encomiastic lays. One 
of them having composed a short poem in praise of his sov- 
ereign, hastened to recite it to him, but found him just ris- 
ing from table, and surrounded by suitors. 

" The impatient poet craved an audience of the king for his lay, 
assuring him it was ' very short.' The wrath of Canute was kindled, 
and he answered the Skald with a stern look, — ' Are you not 
ashamed to do what none but yourself has dared, — to write a short 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 3^5 

poem upon me ? — unless by the hour of dinner to-morrow you pro- 
duce a drapa above thirty strophes long on the same subject, your 
life shall pay the penalty.' The inventive genius of the poet did 
not desert him ; he produced the required poem, which was of the 
kind called Tog-drapa, and the king liberally rewarded him with 
fifty marks of silver. 

" Thus we perceive how the flowers of poetry sprung up and 
bloomed amidst eternal ice and snows. The arts of peace were 
successfully cultivated by the free and independent Icelanders. 
Their Arctic isle was not warmed by a Grecian sun, but their hearts 
glowed with the fire of freedom. The natural divisions of the 
country by icebergs and lava streams insulated the people from each 
other, and the inhabitants of each valley and each hamlet formed, 
as it were, an independent community. These were again reunited 
in the general national assembly of the Althing, which might not 
be unaptly likened to the Amphyctionic council or Olympic games, 
where all the tribes of the nation convened to offer the common 
rites of their religion, to decide their mutual differences, and to lis- 
ten to the lays of the Skald, which commemorated the exploits of 
their ancestors. Their pastoral life was diversified by the occupa- 
tion of fishing. Like the Greeks, too, the sea was their element, 
but even their shortest voyages bore them much farther from their 
native shores than the boasted expedition of the Argonauts. Their 
familiarity with the perils of the ocean, and with the diversified 
manners and customs of foreign lands, stamped their national char- 
acter with bold and original features, which distinguished them from 
every other people. 

" The power of oral tradition, in thus transmitting, through a suc- 
cession of ages, poetical or prose compositions of considerable length, 
may appear almost incredible to civilized nations accustomed to the 
art of writing. But it is well known, that even after the Homeric 
poems had been reduced to writing, the rhapsodists who had been ac- 
customed to recite them could readily repeat any passage desired. 
4uid we have, in our own times, among the Servians, Calmucks, and 



34 G WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

oilier barbarous and semi-barbarous nations, examples of heroic and 
popular poems of great length thus preserved and handed down to 
posterity. This is more especially the case where there is a perpetual 
order of men, whose exclusive employment it is to learn and repeat, 
whose faculty of the memory is thus improved and carried to the high- 
est pitch of perfection, and who are relied upon as historiographers 
to preserve the national annals. The interesting scene presented this 
day in every Icelandic family, in the long nights of winter, is a living 
proof of the existence of this ancient custom. No sooner does the day 
close, than the whole patriarchal family, domestics and all, are seated 
on their couches in the principal apartment, from the ceiling of 
which the reading and working lamp is suspended ; and one of the 
family, selected for that purpose, takes his seat near the lamp, and 
begins to read some favorite Saga, or it may be the works of Klop- 
stock and Milton, (for these have been translated in Icelandic,) whilst 
all the rest attentively listen, and are at the same time engaged in 
their respective occupations. From the scarcity of printed books in 
this poor and sequestered country, in some families the Sagas are re- 
cited by those who have committed them to memory, and there are 
still instances of itinerant orators of this sort, who gain a livelihood 
during the winter by going about, from house to house, repeating the 
stories they have thus learnt by heart." 

The most prominent feature of Icelandic verse, accord- 
ing to our author, is its alliteration. In this respect it resem- 
bles the poetry of all rude periods of society. That of the 
eastern nations, the Hebrews and the Persians, is full of this 
ornament ; and it is found even among the classic poets of 
Greece and Rome. These observations of Mr. Wheaton are 
supported by those of Dr. Henderson* who states that the 
fundamental rule in Icelandic poetry required that there 
should be three words in every couplet having the same initial 

* Eenderson's Iceland Edinb. 1819. Appendix III. 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 317 

letter, two of which should be in the former hemistich, and 
one in the latter. The following translation from Milton is 
furnished as a specimen : — 

Fid that Fillu diup 
Fard annum slsega, 
Z?61oerk i?idleikat 
-Barmi vitis 4. 

" Into this wild abyss the wary Fiend 
Stood on the brink of Hell and looked." 

As a specimen of the tales related by the Skalds, we may 
cite that of Sigurd and the beauteous Brynhilda, a royal virgin, 
who is described as living in a lonely castle, encircled by magic 
flames. 

In the Teutonic lay, Brynhilda is a mere mortal virgin ; but 
in the Icelandic poem she becomes a Valkyria, one of those 
demi-divinities, servants of Odin or Woden in the Gothic my- 
thology, who were appointed to watch over the fate of battle, 
and were, as their name betokens, selectors of the slain. They 
were clothed in armor, and mounted on fleet horses, with 
drawn swords, and mingled in the shock of battle, choosing 
the warrior-victims, and conducting them to Valhalla, the hall 
of Odin, where they joined the banquet of departed heroes, in 
carousals of mead and beer. 

The first interview of the hero and heroine is wildly romantic. 
Sigurd, journeying toward Franconia, sees a flaming light upon 
a lofty mountain ; he approaches it, and beholds a warrior in 
full armor asleep upon the ground. On removing the helmet 
of the slumberer, he discovers the supposed knight to be an 
Amazon. Her armor clings to her body, so that he is obliged 
to separate it with his sword. She then arises from her death- 
like sleep, and apprises him that he has broken the spell by 



348 win: axon's history of the Northmen. 

which she lay entranced. She had been thrown into this 
lethargic state by Odin, in punishment for having disobeyed 
his orders. In a combat between two knights, she had caused 
the death of him who should have had the victory. 

This romantic tale has been agreeably versified by William 
Spencer, an elegant and accomplished genius, who has just 
furnished the world with sufficient proofs of his talents to cause 
regret that they did not fall to the lot of a more industrious 
man. We subjoin the fragments of his poem cited by our 
author. 

" Oh strange is the bower where Brynhilda reclines, 
Around it the watch-fire high bickering shines! 
Her couch is of iron, her pillow a shield, 
And the maiden's chaste eyes are in deep slumber sealed; 
Thy charm, dreadful Odin, around her is spread, 
From thy wand the dread slumber was poured on her head. 
Oh, whilom in battle so bold and so free, 
Like a Vik'mgr victorious she roved o'er the sea. 
The love-lighting eyes, which are fettered by sleep, 
Have seen the sea-fight raging fierce o'er the deep; 
And 'mid the dread wounds of the dying and slain, 
The tide of destruction poured wide o'er the plain. 

" Who is it that spurs his dark steed at the fire ? 
Who is it, whose wishes thus boldly aspire 
To the chamber of shields, where the beautiful maid 
By the spell of the mighty All-Father is laid ? 
It is Sigurd the valiant, the slayer of kings, 
With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings." 

BRYNHILDA. 

" Like a Virgin of the Shield I roved o'er the sea, 
My arm was victorious, my valor was free. 
By prowess, by Runic enchantment and song, 
I raised up the weak, and I beat down the strong; 



WHEATON's HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 349 

I held the young prince 'mid the hurly of war, 

My arm waved around him the charmed scimitar; 

I saved him in battle, I crowned him in hall, 

Though Odin and Fate had foredoomed him to fall: 

Hence Odin's dread curses were poured on my head; 

He doomed the undaunted Brynbilda to wed. 

But I vowed the high vow which gods dare not gainsay, 

That the boldest in warfare should bare me away : 

And full well I knew that thou, Sigurd, alone 

Of mortals the boldest in battle hast shone; 

I knew that none other the furnace could stem, 

(So wrought was the spell, and so fierce was the flame,) 

Save Sigurd the glorious, the slayer of kings, 

With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings." 

The story in the original runs through several cantos, com- 
prising varied specimens of those antique Gothic compositions, 
which, to use the words of our author, — 

"are not only full of singularly wild and beautiful poetry, and lively 
pictures of the manners and customs of the heroic age of the ancient 
North, its patriarchal simplicity, its deadly feuds, and its fanciful super- 
stition, peopling the earth, air, and waters with, deities, giants, genii, 
nymphs, and dwarfs ; but there are many exquisite touches of the 
deepest pathos, to which the human heart beats in unison in every age 
and in every land." 

Many of these hyperborean poems, he remarks, have an 
Oriental character and coloring in their subjects and imagery, 
their mythology and their style, bearing internal evidence of 
their having been composed in remote antiquity, and in regions 
less removed from the cradle of the human race than the Scan- 
dinavian North. " The oldest of this fragmentary poetry," as 
he finely observes, " may be compared to the gigantic remains, 

the wrecks of a more ancient world, or to the ruins of Egypt 
15* 



35U wheaton's history of the Northmen. 

and Hindostan, speaking a more perfect civilization, the glories 
of which have long since departed." 

Our author gives us many curious glances at the popular 
superstitions of the North, and those poetic and mythic fictions 
which pervaded the great Scandinavian family of nations. The 
charmed armor of the warrior; the dragon who keeps a sleep- 
less watch over buried treasure ; the spirits or genii that haunt 
the rocky tops of mountains, or the depths of quiet lakes ; and 
the elves or vagrant demons which wander through forests, or 
by lonely hills ; these are found in all the popular supersti- 
tions of the North. Ditmarus Blef kenius tells us that the Ice- 
landers believed in domestic spirits, which woke them at night 
to go and fish ; and that all expeditions to which they were 
thus summoned were eminently fortunate. The water-sprites, 
originating in Icelandic poetry, may be traced throughout the 
north of Europe. The Swedes delight to tell of the Sfromkerl, 
or boy of the stream, who haunts the glassy brooks that steal 
gently through green meadows, and sits on the silver waves at 
moonlight, playing his harp to the elves who dance on the 
flowery margin. Scarcely a rivulet in Germany also but has 
its Wasser-nixe, or water-witches, all evidently members of the 
great northern family. 

Before we leave this enchanted ground, we must make a 
few observations on the Eunic characters, which were regarded 
with so much awe in days of yore, as locking up darker mys- 
teries and more potent spells than the once redoubtable hie- 
roglyphics of the Egyptians. The Runic alphabet, according 
to our author, consists properly of sixteen letters. Northern 
tradition attributes them to Odin, who, perhaps, brought them 
into Scandinavia, but they have no resemblance to any of the 
alphabets of central Asia. Inscriptions in these characters 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 351 

are still to be seen on rocks and .stone monuments in Sweden, 
and other countries of the North, containing Scandinavian 
verses in praise of their ancient heroes. They were also en- 
graven on arms, trinkets, amulets, and utensils, and sometimes 
on the bark of trees, and on wooden tablets, for the purpose 
of memorials or of epistolary correspondence. In one of the 
Eddaic poems, . Odin is represented as boasting the magic 
power of the Runic rhymes, to heal diseases and counteract 
poison ; to spell-bind the arms of an enemy ; to lull the tem- 
pest ; to stop the career of witches through the air ; to raise 
the dead, and extort from them the secrets of the world of 
spirits. The reader who may desire to see the letters of this 
all-potent alphabet, will find them in Mallet's " Northern An- 
tiquities." 

In his sixth chapter, Mr. Wheaton gives an account of the 
religion of Odin, and his migration, with a colony of Scythian 
Goths, from the banks of the Tanais, in Asia, to the peninsula 
of Scandinavia, to escape the Roman Jegions. Without emu- 
lating his minute and interesting detail, we will merely and 
briefly state some of the leading particulars, and refer the curi- 
ous reader to the pages of his book. 

The expedition of this mythological hero is stated to have 
taken place about seventy years before the Christian era, when 
Pompey the Great, then consul of Rome, finished the war with 
Tigranes and Mithridates, and carried his victorious arms 
throughout the most important parts of Asia. We quote a 
description of the wonderful vessel Skidbladner, the ship of 
*:he gods, in which he made the voyage : — 

' " Skidbladner" said one of the genii, when interrogated by Gang- 
ler, " is one of the best ships, and most curiously constructed. It was 
built by certain dwarfs, who made a present of it to Freyn. It is so 



35'2 WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

vast that there is room to hold all the deities, with their armor. As 
soon as the sails are spread, it directs its course, with a favorable 
breeze, wherever they desire to navigate ; and when they avisIi to 
land, such is its marvellous construction, that it can be taken to pieces, 
rolled up, and put in the pocket." " That is an excellent ship, indeed/' 
replied Gangler, " and must have required much science and magic 
art to construct," — p. 118. 

With this very convenient, portable, and pocketable ship, 
and a crew of Goths of the race of Sviar, called by Tacitus 
Suiones, the intrepid Odin departed from Scythia, to escape 
the domination of the Romans, who were spreading themselves 
over the world. He took with him also his twelve pontiffs, who 
were at once priests of religion and judges of the law. When- 
ever sea or river intervened, he launched his good ship Skid- 
bladner, embarked with his band, and sailed merrily over ; then 
landing, and pocketing the transport, he again put himself at 
the head of his crew, and marched steadily forward. To add 
to the facilities of these primitive emigrants, Odin was himself 
a seer and a magician. He could look into futurity ; could 
strike his enemies with deafness, blindness, and sudden panic ; 
could blunt the edge of their weapons, and render his own war- 
riors invisible. He could transform himself into bird, beast, 
fish, or serpent, and fly to the most distant regions, while his 
body remained in a trance. He could, with a single word, ex- 
tinguish fire, control the winds, and bring the dead to life. He 
carried about with him an embalmed and charmed head, which 
would reply to his questions, and give him information of what 
was passing in the remotest lands. He had, moreover, two 
most gifted and confidential ravens, who had the gift of speech, 
and would fly, on his behests, to the uttermost parts of the 
earth. We have only to believe in the supernatural powers of 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 353 

such a leader, provided with such a ship, and such an oracular 
head, attended by two such marvellously gifted birds, and 
backed by a throng of stanch and stalwart Gothic followers, 
and we shall not wonder that he found but little difficulty in 
making his way to the peninsula of Scandinavia, and in ex- 
pelling the aboriginal inhabitants, who seem to have been but 
a diminutive and stunted race ; although there are not wanting 
fabulous narrators, who would fain persuade us there were 
giants among them. They were gradually subdued and re- 
duced to servitude, or driven to the mountains, and subse- 
quently to the desert wilds and fastnesses of Norrland, Lap- 
land, and Finland, where they continued to adhere to that 
form of polytheism called Fetishism, or the adoration of birds 
and beasts, stocks and stones, and all the animate and inani- 
mate works of creation. 

As to Odin, he introduced into his new dominions the relig- 
ion he had brought with him from the banks of the Tanais ; 
but, like the early heroes of most barbarous nations, he was 
destined to become himself an object of adoration ; for though 
to all appearance he died, and was consumed on a funeral pile, 
it was said that he was translated to the blissful abode of God- 
heim, there to enjoy eternal life. In process of time it was 
declared, that, though a mere prophet on earth, he had been 
an incarnation of the Supreme Deity, and had returned to the 
sacred hall of Valhalla, the paradise of the brave, where, sur- 
rounded by his late companions in arms, he watched over the 
deeds and destinies of the children of men. 

The primitive people who had been conquered by Odin and 
his followers, seem to have been as diminutive in spirit as in 
form, and withal a rancorous race of little vermin, whose ex- 
Dukion from their native land awakens but faint sympathy; 



o')\ WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

yet candor compels us to add, that their conquerors are not 
much more entitled to our esteem, although their hardy deeds 
command our admiration. The author gives a slight sketch 
of the personal peculiarities which discriminated both, ex- 
tracted from an Eddaic poem, and which is worth) of notice, 
as accounting, as far as the authority is respected, for some of 
the diversities in feature and complexion of the Scandinavian 
races. 

'* The slave caste, descended from the aboriginal Finns, were dis- 
tinguished from their conquerors by black hair and complexion 

The caste of freemen and freeholders, lords of the soil which thev cul- 
tivated, and descended from the Gothic conquerors, had reddish hair, 
fair complexion, and all the traits which peculiarly mark that famous 
race, .... while the caste of the illustrious Jarls and the Hersen, 
earls and barons, were distinguished by still fairer hair and skin, and 
by noble employments and manners : from these descended the kingly 
race, skilled in Runic science, in manly exercises, and the military 
art," 

The manners, customs, and superstitions of these northern 
people, which afterwards, with various modifications, pervaded 
and stamped an indelible character on so great a part of Eu- 
rope, deserve to be more particularly mentioned ; and we give 
a brief view of them, chiefly taken from the work of our au- 
thor, and partly from other sources. The religion of the early 
Scandinavians taught the existence of a Supreme Being, called 
Thor, who ruled over the elements, purified the air with re- 
freshing showers, dispensed health and sickness, wielded the 
thunder and lightning, and with his celestial weapon, the rain- 
bow, launched unerring arrows at the evil demons. Pie was 
worshipped in a primitive but striking manner, amidst the sol- 
emn majesty of Nature, on the tops of mountains, in the depths 



WITK.A.TON S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 



355 



of primeval forests, or in those groves which rose like natural 
temples on islands surrounded by the dark waters of lonely 
and silent lakes. They had, likewise, their minor deities, or 
genii, whom we have already mentioned, who were supposed to 
inhabit the sun, the moon, and stars, — the regions of the air 
the trees, the rocks, the brooks, and mountains of the earth, 
and to superintend the phenomena of their respective ele- 
ments. They believed, also, in a future state of torment for 
the guilty, and of voluptuous and sensual enjoyment for the 
virtuous. 

This primitive religion gave place to more complicated be- 
liefs. Odin, elevated, as we have shown, into a divinity, was 
worshipped as the Supreme Deity, and with him was associated 
his wife Freya ; from these are derived our Odensday — 
Wodensclay or Wednesday — and our Freytag, or Friday. 
Thor, from whom comes Thursday, was now more limited in 
his sway, though he still bent the rainbow, launched the thun- 
derbolt, and controlled the seasons. These three were the 
principal deities, and held assemblies of those of inferior rank 
and power. The mythology had also its devil, called Loke, a 
most potent and malignant spirit, and supposed to be the cause 
of all evil. 

By degrees the religious rites of the northern people became 
more artificial and ostentatious ; they were performed in tem- 
ples, with something of Asiatic pomp. Festivals were intro- 
duced of symbolical and mystic import, at the summer and the 
winter solstice, and at various other periods ; in which were 
typified, not merely the decline and renovation of Nature and 
the changes of the seasons, but the epochs in the moral history 
of man. As the ceremonials of religion became more dark 
and mysterious, they assumed a cruel and sanguinary charac- 



3. r M) WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

ter ; prisoners taken in battle were sacrificed by the victors^ 
subjects by their kings, and sometimes even children by their 
parents. Superstition gradually spread its illusions over all the 
phenomena of Nature, and gave each some occult meaning ; 
oracles, lots, auguries, and divination gained implicit faith ; 
and soothsayers read the decrees of fate in the flight of birds, 
the sound of thunder, and the entrails of the victim. Every 
man was supposed to have his attendant spirit, his destiny, 
which it was out of his power to avert, and his appointed hour 
to die ; — Odin, however, could control or alter the destiny of 
a mortal, and defer the fatal hour. It was believed, also, that a 
man's life might be prolonged if another would devote himself 
to death in his stead. 

The belief in magic was the natural attendant upon these 
superstitions. Charms and spells were practised, and the 
Eunic rhymes, known but to the gifted few, acquired their 
reputation among the ignorant multitude, for an all-potent and 
terrific influence over the secrets of Nature and the actions 
and destinies of man. 

As war was the principal and the only noble occupation of 
these people, their moral code was suitably brief and stern. 
After profound devotion to the gods, valor in war was incul- 
cated as the supreme virtue, cowardice as the deadly sin. Those 
who fell gloriously in war were at once transported to Valhalla, 
the airy hall of Odin, there to partake of the eternal felicities 
of the brave. Fighting and feasting, which had constituted 
their fierce joys on earth, were lavished upon them in this 
supernal abode. Every day they had combats in the listed 
field, — the rush of steeds, the flash of swords, the sh'ning 
of lances, and all the maddening tumult and din of battle ; 
— helmets and bucklers were riven, — horses and riders 



WHEATON's HTSTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 357 

overthrown, and ghastly wounds exchanged ; but at the set- 
ting of the sun all was over ; victors and vanquished met 
unscathed in glorious companionship around the festive hoard 
of Odin in Valhalla's hall, where they partook of the ample 
banquet, and quaffed full horns of beer and fragrant mead. 
For the just who did not die in fight, a more peaceful but less 
glorious elysium was provided, — a resplendent golden palace, 
surrounded by verdant meads and shady groves and fields of 
spontaneous fertility. 

The early training of their youth was suited to the creed of 
this warlike people. In the tender days of childhood they 
were gradually hardened by athletic exercises, and nurtured 
through boyhood in difficult and daring feats. At the age of 
fifteen they were produced before some public assemblage, and 
presented with a sword, a buckler, and a lance ; from that time 
forth they mingled among men, and were expected to support 
themselves by hunting or warfare. But though thus early 
initiated in the rough and dangerous concerns of men, they 
were prohibited all indulgence with the softer sex until matured 
in years and vigor. 

Their weapons of offence "were bow and arrow, battle-axe 
and sword ; and the latter was often engraved with some mys- 
tic characters, and bore a formidable and vaunting name. 

The helmets of the common soldiery were of leather, and 
their bucklers leather and wood ; but warriors of rank had hel- 
mets and shields of iron and brass, sometimes richly gilt and 
decorated ; and they wore coats of mail, and occasionally plated 
armor. 

A young chieftain of generous birth received higher endow- 
ments than the common class. Beside the hardy exercise of 
the chase and the other exercises connected with the use of 



3.*S WHEATONS HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

arms, he was initiated betimes into the sacred science of the 
Runic writing, and instructed in the ancient lay, especially if 
destined for sovereignty, as every king was the pontiff of his 
people. When a prince had attained the age of eighteen, his 
father usually gave him a small fleet and a band of warriors, 
and sent him on some marauding voyage, from which it was 
disgraceful to return with empty hands. 

Such was the moral and physical training of the Northmen, 
which prepared them for that wide and wild career of enter- 
prise and conquest which has left its traces along all the coasts 
of Europe, and thrown communities and colonies, in the most 
distant regions, to remain themes of wonder and speculation in 
after ages. Actuated by the same roving and predatory spirit 
which had brought their Scythian ancestors from the banks of 
the Tanais, and rendered daring navigators by their experi- 
ence along the stormy coasts of the North, they soon extended 
their warlike roamings over the ocean, and became complete 
maritime marauders, with whom piracy at sea was equivalent 
to chivalry on shore, and a freebooting cruise to a heroic en- 
terprise. 

For a time, the barks in which they braved the dangers of 
the sea, and infested the coasts of England and France, were 
mere can^oes, formed from the trunks of trees, and so light as 
readily to be carried on men's shoulders, or dragged along the 
land. With these they suddenly swarmed upon a devoted 
coast, sailing up the rivers, shifting from stream to stream, and 
often making their way back to the sea by some different river 
from that they had ascended. Their chiefs obtained the ap- 
pellation of sea-kings, because, to the astonished inhabitants of 
the invaded coasts, they seemed to emerge suddenly from the 
ocean, and when they had finished their ravages, to retire 



WHEA.TONS HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 359 

again into its bosom as to their native home ; and they were 
rightly named, in the opinion of the author of " A Northern 
Saga," seeing that their lives were passed upon the waves, and 
" they never sought shelter under a roof, or drained their 
drinking-horn at a cottage fire." 

Though plunder seemed to be the main object of this wild 
ocean chivalry, they had still that passion for martial renown, 
which grows up with the exercise of arms, however rude and 
lawless, and which in them was stimulated by the songs of the 
Skalds. 

We are told that they were " sometimes seized with a sort 

4 

of frenzy, a furor Martis, produced by their excited imagina- 
tions dwelling upon the images of war and glory, and perhaps 
increased by those potations of stimulating liquors in which the 
people of the North, like other uncivilized tribes, indulged to 
great excess. When this madness was upon them, they com- 
mitted the wildest extravagances, attacked indiscriminately 
friends and foes, and even waged war against the rocks and 
trees. At other times they defied each other to mortal combat 
in some lonely and desert isle." 

Among the most renowned of these early sea-kings was 
Ragnar Lodbrok, famous for his invasion of Northumbria, in 
England, and no less famous in ancient Sagas for his strange 
and cruel death. According to those poetic legends, he was a 
king of Denmark, who ruled his realms in peace, without be- 
ing troubled with any dreams of conquest. His sons, however, 
were roving the seas with their warlike followers, and after a 
time tidings of their heroic exploits reached his court. The 
jealousy of Ragnar was excited, and he determined on an ex- 
pedition that should rival their achievements. He accordingly 
ordered "the Arrow," the signal of war, to be sent through 



360 WHEATON'S IUSTOKl" OF THE NORTHMEN. 

his dominions, summoning his " champions " to arms. He had 
ordered two ships of immense size to be built, and in them he 
embarked with his followers. His faithful and discreet queen, 
Aslauga, warned him of the perils to which he was exposing 
himself, but in vain. He set sail for the north of England, 
which had formerly been invaded by his predecessors. The 
expedition was driven back to port by a tempest. The queen 
repeated her warnings and entreaties, but finding them unavail- 
ing, she gave him a magical garment that had the virtue to 
render the wearer invulnerable. 

"Ragnar again put to sea, and was at last shipwrecked on the Eng- 
lish coast. In this emergency his courage did not desert him, but he 
pushed forward with his small band to ravage and plunder. Ella col- 
lected his forces to repel the invader. Ragnar, clothed with the 
enchanted garment he had received from his beloved Aslauga, and 
armed with the spear with which he had slain the guardian serpent of 
Thora, four times pierced the Saxon ranks, dealing death on every 
side, whilst his own body was invulnerable to the blows of his enemies. 
His friends and champions fell one by one around him, and he was at 
last taken prisoner alive. Being asked who he was, he preserved an 
indignant silence. Then King Ella said, — 'If this man will not 
speak, he shall endure so much the heavier punishment for his ob- 
duracy and contempt.' So he ordered him to be thrown into the 
dungeon full of serpents, where he should remain till he told his name. 
Ragnar, being thrown into the dungeon, sat there a long time before 
the serpents attacked him ; which being noticed by the spectators, they 
eaid he must be a brave man indeed whom neither arms nor vipers 
could hurt. Ella, hearing this, ordered his enchanted vest to be strip- 
ped off, and, soon afterwards, the serpents clung to him on all sides. 
Then Ragnar said, ' How the young cubs would roar if they knew 
what the old boar suffers ! ' and expired with a laugh of defiance." — 
pp. 152, 153. 



WHEATON's HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 361 

The death-song of Ragnar Lodbrok will be found in an ap- 
pendix to Henderson's ; ' Iceland," both in the original and in a 
translation. The version, however, which is in prose, conveys 
but faintly the poetic spirit of the original. It consists of 
twenty-nine stanzas, most of them of nine lines, and contains, 
like the death-song of a warrior among the American Indians, a 
boastful narrative of his expeditions and exploits. Each stanza 
bears the same burden : — 

" Hiuggom ver med hiarvi." 

" We hewed them with our swords." 

Lodbrok exults that his achievements entitle him to admission 
among the gods ; predicts that his children shall avenge his 
death ; and glories that no sigh shall disgrace his exit. In the 
last stanza he hails the arrival of celestial virgins sent to invite 
him to the Hall of Odin, where he shall join the assembly of 
heroes, sit upon a lofty throne, and quaff the mellow beverage 
of barley. The last strophe of this death-song is thus ren- 
dered by Mr. Wheaton : — 

" Cease my strain ! T hear Them call 
Who bid me hence to Odin's hall ! 
High seated in their blest abodes, 
I soon shall quaff the drink of gods. 
The hours of Life have glided by, — 
I fall ! but laughing will I die ! 
The hours of Life have glided by, — 
I fall ! but laughing will I die ! " 

The sons of Ragnar, if the Sagas may be believed, were not 
slow in revenging the death of their parent. They were ab- 
sent from home on warlike expeditions at the time, and did 
not hear of the catastrophe until after their return to Denmark. 
Their first tidings of it were from the messengers of Ella, sent 



3G2 yviieaton's history of the kortiimen. 

to propitiate their hostility. When the messengers entered the 
royal hall, they found the sons of Ragnar variously employed. 
Sigurdr Snakeseye was playing at chess with his brother 
Huitserk the Brave ; while Bjorn Ironside was polishing the 
handle of his spear in the middle pavement of the hall. The 
messengers approached to where Ivar, the other brother, was sit- 
ting, and, saluting him with due reverence, told him they were 
sent by King Ella to announce the death of his royal father. 

" As they began to unfold their tale, Sigurdr and Huitserk dropped 
their game, carefully weighing what was said. Bjorn stood in the 
midst of the hall, leaning on his spear; but Ivar diligently inquired by 
what means, and by what kind of death, his father had perished ; which 
the messengers related, from his first arrival in England till his death. 
When, in the course of their narrative, they came to the words of the 
dying king, ' How the young whelps would roar if they knew their 
father's fate ! ' Bjorn grasped the handle of his spear so fast that the 
prints of his fingers remained; and when the tale was done, dashed 
the spear in pieces. Huitserk pressed the chess-board so hard with 
his hands, that they bled. 

" Ivar changed color continually, now red, now black, now pale, 
whilst he struggled to suppress his kindling wrath. 

" Huitserk the Brave, who first broke silence, proposed to begin their 
revenge by the death of the messengers ; which Ivar forbade, command- 
ing them to go in peace, wherever they would, and if they wanted any- 
thing they should be supplied. 

" Their mission being fulfilled, the delegates, passing through the 
hall, went down to their ships ; and the wind being favorable, returned 
eafely to their king. Ella, hearing from them how his message had 
been received by the princes, said that he foresaw that of all the 
brothers, Ivar or none was to be feared." — pp. 188, 189. 

The princes summoned their followers, launched their fleets 
and attacked King Ella in the spring of 8G7. 



WH EATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 363 

"The battle took place at York, and the Anglo-Saxons were en- 
tirely routed. The sons of Ragnar inflicted a cruel and savage retal- 
iation on Ella for his barbarous treatment of their father. 

" After this battle, Northumbria appears no more as a Saxon king- 
dom, and Ivar was made king over that part of England which his 
ancestors had possessed, or into which they had made repeated in- 
cursions." — pp. 189, 190. 

Encouraged by the success that attended their enterprises in 
the northern seas, the Northmen now urged their adventurous 
prows into more distant regions, besetting the southern coasts 
of France with their fleets of light and diminutive barks. 
Charlemagne is said to have witnessed the inroad of one of 
their fleets from the windows of his palace, in the harbor of 
Narbonne ; upon which he lamented the fate of his successors, 
who would have to contend with such audacious invaders. 
They entered the Loire, sacked the city of Nantz, and carried 
their victorious arms up to Tours. They ascended the Ga- 
ronne, pillaged Bordeaux, and extended their incursion even 
to Toulouse. They also entered the Seine in 845, ravaging 
its banks, and pushing their enterprise to the very gates of 
Paris, compelled the monarch Charles to take refuge in the 
monastery of St. Denis, where he was fain to receive the pirat- 
ical chieftain, Regnier, and to pay him a tribute of 7000 pounds 
of silver, on condition of his evacuating his capital and king- 
dom. Regnier, besides immense booty, carried back to Den- 
mark, as trophies of his triumph, a beam from the abbey of 
St. Germain, and a nail from the gate of Paris ; but his follow- 
ers spread over their native country a contagious disease which 
they had contracted in France. 

Spain was, in like manner, subject to their invasions. They 
ascended the Guadalquivir, attacked the great city of Seville. 



3G4 aviikaton's history of the Northmen. 

and demolished its fortifications, after severe battles with the 
Moors, who were then sovereigns of that country, and who re- 
garded these unknown invaders from the sea as magicians, on 
account of their wonderful daring and still more wonderful 
success. As the author well observes, " The contrast between 
these two races of fanatic barbarians, the one issuing forth from 
the frozen regions of the North, the other from the burning 
sands of Asia and Africa, forms one of the most striking pic- 
tures presented by history." 

The Straits of Gibraltar being passed by these rovers of the 
North, the Mediterranean became another region for their ex- 
ploits. Hastings, one of their boldest chieftains, and father of 
that Hastings who afterwards battled with King Alfred for the 
sovereignty of England, accompanied by Bjorn Ironside and 
Sydroc, two sons of Ragnar Lodbrok, undertook an expe- 
dition against Rome, the capital of the world, tempted by 
accounts of its opulence and splendor, but not precisely 
acquainted with its site. They penetrated the Mediterranean 
with a fleet of one hundred barks, and entered the port of 
Luna in Tuscany, an ancient city, whose high walls and towers 
and stately edifices made them mistake it for imperial Rome. 

" The inhabitants were celebrating the festival of Christmas in the 
cathedral, when the news was spread among them of the arrival of a 
fleet of unknown strangers. The church was instantly deserted, and 
the citizens ran to shut the gates, and prepared to defend their town. 
Hastings sent a herald to inform the count and bishop of Luna that 
he and his band were Northmen, conquerors of the Franks, who de- 
signed no harm to the inhabitants of Italy, but merely sought to repair 
their shattered barks. In order to inspire more confidence, Hastings 
pretended to be weary of the wandering life he had so long led, and 
desired to find repose in the bosom of the Christian Church. The 



WHEATON S HISTORY OF TELE NORTHMEN. <5b9 

bishop and the count furnished the fleet with the needful succor ; 
Hastings was baptized ; but still his Norman followers were not ad- 
mitted within the city walls Their chief was then obliged to resort 
to another stratagem ; he feigned to be dangerously ill ; his camp re- 
sounded with the lamentations of his followers ; he declared his inten- 
tion of leaving the rich booty he had acquired to the Church, provided 
they would grant him sepulture in holy ground. The wild howl of 
the Normans soon announced the death of their chieftain. The in- 
habitants followed the funeral procession to the Church, but at the 
moment they were about to deposit his apparently lifeless body, Hast- 
ings started up from his coffin, and, seizing his sword, struck down the 
officiating bishop. His followers instantly obeyed this signal of treach- 
ery j they drew from under their garments their concealed weapons, 
massacred the clergy and others who assisted at the ceremony, and 
spread havoc and consternation throughout the town. Having thus 
become master of Luna, the Norman chieftain discovered his error, 
and found that he was still far from Home, which was not likely to 
fall so easy a prey. After having transported on board his barks the 
wealth of the city, as well as the most beautiful women, and the young 
men capable of bearing arms or of rowing, he put to sea, intending 
to return to the North. 

" The Italian traditions as to the destruction of this city resemble 
more nearly the romance of ' Romeo and Juliet,' than the history of 
the Scandinavian adventurer. According to these accounts, the prince 
of Luna was inflamed with the beauty of a certain young empress, 
then travelling in company with the emperor her husband. Their 
passion was mutual, and the two lovers had recourse to the following 
stratagem, in order to accomplish their union. The empress feigned 
to be grievously sick ; she was believed to be dead ; her funeral ob- 
sequies were duly celebrated ; but she escaped from the sepulchre, 
and secretly rejoined her lover. The emperor had no sooner heard 
df their crime, than he marched to attack the residence of the rav- 
isher, and avenged himself by the entire destruction of the once flour- 
ishing city of Luna. The only point of resemblance between these 
16 



3GG wiieaton's uistoky of the Northmen. 

two stories consists in the romantic incident of the destruction of* the 
city by means of a feigned death, a legend which spread abroad over 
Italy and France." 

The last and greatest of the sea-kings, or pirate heroes of 
the North, was Rollo, surnamed Ferus Fortis, the Lusty Boar 
or Hardy Beast, from whom William the Conqueror comes iu 
lineal, though not legitimate, descent. Our limits do not per- 
mit us to detail the early history of this warrior, as selected by 
our author from among the fables of the Norman chronicles, 
and the more simple, and, he thinks, more veritable narratives 
in the Icelandic Sagas. We shall merely state that Rollo ar- 
rived with a band of Northmen, all fugitive adventurers, like 
himself, upon the coast of France ; ascended the Seine to 
Rouen, subjugated the fertile province then called Neustria ; 
named it Normandy from the Northmen, his followers, and 
crowned himself first Duke. 

" Under his firm and vigorous rule, the blessings of order and peace 
were restored to a country which had so long and so cruelly suffered 
from the incursions of the northern adventurers. He tolerated the 
Christians in their worship, and they flocked in crowds to live under 
the dominion of a Pagan and barbarian, in preference to their own 
native and Christian prince (Charles the Simple), who was unwilling 
or incapable to protect them." 

Rollo established in his duchy of Normandy a feudal aris- 
tocracy, or rather it grew out of the circumstances of the 
country. His followers elected him duke, and he made them 
counts and barons and knights. The clergy also pressed 
themselves into his great council or parliament. The laws 
were reduced to a system by men of acute intellect, and this 
system of feudal law was subsequently transplanted by Wil- 



wii eaton's history of the Northmen. 3G7 

liam the Conqueror into England, as a means of consolidat- 
ing his power and establishing his monarchy. 

" Rollo is said also to have established the"' Court of Exchequer 
as the supreme tribunal of justice; and the perfect security afforded 
by the admirable system of police established in England by King 
Alfred is likewise attributed to the legislation of the first Duke of 
Normandy." — p. 252. 

Trial by battle, or judicial combat, was a favorite appeal 
to God by the warlike nations of Scandinavia, as by most 
of the barbarous tribes who established themselves on the 
ruin of the Roman empire. It had fallen into disuse in 
France, but was revived by Rollo in Normandy, although 
the clergy were solicitous to substitute the ordeal of fire and 
water, which brought controversies within their control. 
The fierce Norman warriors disdained this clerical mode of 
decision, and strenuously insisted on the appeal to the sword. 
They afterwards, at the Conquest, introduced the trial by com- 
bat into England, where it became a part of the common law. * 

* A statue or effigy of Rollo, over a sarcophagus, is still to be seen in the 
cathedral at Rouen, -with a Latin inscription, stating that he was converted 
to Christianity in 913, and died in 917, and that his bones were removed to 
this spot from their place of original sepulture, in A. d. 1063. The ancient 
epitaph, in rhyming monkish Latin, has been lost, except the following lines : — 

Dux Normanorum 

Cunctorum, 
Norma Bonornm. 
Rollo, Ferus fortis, 
Quem gens Normanica mortis 
Invocat articulo, 
Clauditur hoc tumulo. 

Imitation. 

Rollo, that hardy Boar 

Renowned of yore, 
Of all the Normans Duke: 



368 WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

A spirit of chivalry and love of daring adventure, a ro< 
mantic gallantry towards the sex, and a zealous devotion, were 
blended in the character of the Norman knights. These 
high and generous feelings they brought with them into Eng- 
land, and bore with them in their crusades into the Holy 
Land, Poetry also continued to be cherished and cultivated 
among them, and the Norman troubadour succeeded to the 
Scandinavian skald. The Dukes of Normandy and anglo- 
Norman kings were practisers as well as patrons of this 
delightful art ; and Henry I., surnamed Beauclerc, and Rich- 
ard Cceur de Lion, were distinguished among the poetical 
composers of their day. 

" The Norman minstrel," to quote the words of our author, " ap- 
propriated the fictions they found already accredited among the peo- 
ple for whom they versified. The British King Arthur, his fabled 
knights of the Round Table, and the enchanter Merlin, with his 
wonderful prophecies ; the Frankish monarch Charlemagne and his 
paladins ; and the rich inventions of Oriental fancy borrowed from 
the Arabs and the Moors." — p. 262. 

We have thus cursorily accompanied our author in his de- 
tails of the origin and character, the laws and superstitions, 
and primitive religion, and also of the roving expeditions 
and conquests of the Northmen ; and we give him credit 
for the judgment and candor and careful research with 
which he has gleaned and collated his interesting facts from 
the rubbish of fables and fictions with which they were be- 
wildered and obscured. 

Whose name with dying breath 

In article of death, 
All Norman knights invoke; 

That mirror of the bold, 

This tomb doth hold. 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 369 

Another leading feature in his work is the conversion of 
the Northmen, and the countries from which they came, to 
the Christian faith. An attempt to condense or analyze this 
part of his work would lead us too far, and do injustice to 
the minuteness and accuracy of his details. We must, for 
like reasons, refer the reader to the work itself for the residue 
of its contents. We shall merely remark, that he goes over 
the same ground with the English historians, Hume, Turner, 
Lingard, and Palgrave, gleaning from the original authori- 
ties whatever may have been omitted by them. He has also 
occasionally corrected some errors into which they have fallen, 
through want of more complete access or more critical atten- 
tion to the Icelandic sagas and the Danish and Swedish his- 
torians, who narrated the successful invasion of England by 
the Danes, under Canute, and its final conquest by William 
of Normandy. 

We shall take leave of our author with some extracts from 
the triumphant invasion of William, premising a few words 
concerning his origin and early history. Robert Duke of 
Normandy, called Robert the Magnificent by his flatterers, 
but more commonly known as Robert the Devil, from his 
wild and savage nature, had : an amour with Arlette, the 
daughter of a tanner or currier, of Falaise, in Normandy. 
The damsel gave birth to a male child, who was called Wil- 
liam. While the boy was yet in childhood, Robert the Devil 
resolved to expiate his sins by a pilgrimage to the Holy 
Land ; and compelled his counts and barons to swear fealty 
to his son. " Par ma foi," said Robert, "je ne vous laisserai 
point sans seigneur. J'ai un petit batard qui grandira s'il 
plait a Dieu. Choisisez le des ce present, et je le saiserai 
Levant vous de ce duche comme mon successeur." The 



370 witeaton's history of the Northmen. 

Norman lords placed their hands between the hands of the 
child, and swore fidelity to him according to feudal usage. 
Robert the Devil set out on his pious pilgrimage, and died 
at Nice. The right of the boy William was contested by 
Guy, Count of Burgundy, and other claimants, but he made 
it good with his sword, and then confirmed it by espous- 
ing Matilda, daughter of the Count of Flanders. 

On the death of Edward the Confessor, King of England, 
Harold, from his fleetness surnamed Harefoot, one of the 
bravest nobles of the realm, assumed the crown, to the ex- 
clusion of Edgar Atheling, the lawful heir. It was said that 
Edward had named Harold to succeed him. William Duke 
of Normandy laid claim to the English throne. We have 
not room in this review to investigate his title, which was 
little more than bare pretension. He alleged that Edward 
the Confessor had promised to bequeath to him the crown ; 
but his chief reliance was upon his sword. Harold, while 
yet a subject, had fallen by accident within the power of 
William, who had obtained from him, by cajolery and ex- 
tortion, an oath, sworn on certain sacred relics, not to im- 
pede him in his plans to gain the English crown. 

William prepared an expedition in Normandy, and pub- 
lished a war-ban, inviting adventurers of all countries to 
join him in the invasion of England, and partake the pillage. 
He procured a consecrated banner from the Pope under the 
promise of a portion of the spoil, and embarked a force of 
nearly sixty thousand men on board four hundred vessels 
and above a thousand boats. 

" The ship which bore William preceded the rest of the fleet, 
with the consecrated banner of the Pope displayed at the mast-head, 
its many-colored sails embellished with the lions of Normandy, and 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 371 

its prow adorned with the figure of an infant archer bending his 
bow and ready to let fly his arrow." 

William landed his force at Pevensey, near Hastings, on 
the coast of Sussex, on the 28th of September, 1066 ; and 
we shall state from the Norman chronicles some few particu- 
lars of this interesting event, not included in the volume 
under review. The archers disembarked first, — they had 
short vestments and cropped hair ; then the horsemen, armed 
with coats of mail, caps of iron, straight two-edged swords, 
and long powerful lances ; then the pioneers and artificers, 
who disembarked, piece by piece, the materials for three 
wooden towers, all ready to be put together. The Duke 
was the last to land, for, says the chronicle, " there was no 
opposing enemy." King Harold was in Northumbria, re- 
pelling an army of Norwegian invaders. 

As William leaped on shore, he stumbled and fell upon 
his face. Exclamations of foreboding were heard among 
his followers; but he grasped the earth with his hands, and 
raising them filled with it towards the heavens, " Thus," cried 
he, " do I seize upon this land, and by the splendor of God, 
as far as it extends, it shall be mine." His ready wit thus 
converted a sinister accident into a favorable omen. Hav- 
ing pitched his camp and reared his wooden towers near 
to the town of Hastings, he sent forth his troops to forage 
and lay waste the country ; nor were even the churches and 
cemeteries held sacred to which the English had fled for 
refuge. 

Harold was at York, reposing after a victory over the Nor- 
wegians, in which he had been wounded, when he heard of 
this new invasion. Undervaluing the foe, he set forth in- 
stantly with such force as he could muster, though a few 



372 wheaton's history of the notrhmen. 

days' delay would have brought great reinforcements. On 
his way he met a Norman monk, sent to him by AVilliam, 
with three alternatives : 1. To abdicate in his favor. 2. To 
refer their claims to the decision of the Pope. 3. To deter- 
mine them by single combat. Harold refused all three, and 
quickened his march ; but finding, as he drew nearer, that 
the Norman army was thrice the number of his own, he 
intrenched his host seven miles from their camp, upon a 
range of hills, behind a rampart of palisades and osier 
hurdles. 

The impending night of the battle was passed by the Nor- 
mans in warlike preparations, or in confessing their sins and 
receiving the sacrament, and the camp resounded with the 
prayers and chantings of priests and friars. As to the Saxon 
warriors, they sat round their camp-fires, carousing horns of 
beer and wine, and singing old national war-songs. 

At an early hour in the morning of the 14th of October, 
Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and bastard brother of the Duke, be- 
ing the son of his mother Arlette, by a burgher of Falaise, cel- 
ebrated mass, and gave his benediction to the Norman army. 
He then put a hauberk under his cassock, mounted a powerful 
white charger, and led forth a brigade of cavalry ; for he was 
as ready with the spear as with the crosier, and for his fighting 
and other turbulent propensities, well merited his surname of 
Odo the Unruly. 

The army was formed into three columns; — one composed 
of mercenaries from the countries of Boulogne and Ponthieu ; 
the second of auxiliaries from Brittany and elsewhere ; the 
third of Norman troops, led by William in person. Each col- 
umn was preceded by archers in light quilted coats instead of 
armor, some with long bows, and others with cross-bows of 



WH-EATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 373 

steel. Their mode of fighting was to discharge a flight of ar- 
rows, and then retreat behind the heavy armed troops. The 
Duke was mounted on a Spanish steed, around his neck were 
suspended some of the relics on which Harold had made 
oath, and the consecrated standard was borne at his side. 

William harangued his soldiers, reminding them of the ex- 
ploits of their ancestors, the massacre of the Northmen in Eng- 
land, and, in particular, the murder of their brethren the Danes. 
But he added another and a stronger excitement to their valor : 
" Fight manfully, and put all to the sword ; and if we con- 
quer, we shall all be rich. What I gain, you gain ; what I 
conquer, you conquer ; if I gain the land, it is yours." We 
shall give, in our author's own words, the further particulars of 
this decisive battle, which placed a Norman sovereign on the 
English throne. 

" The spot which Harold had selected for this ever-memorable con- 
test was a high ground, then called Senlac, nine miles from Hastings, 
opening to the south, and covered in the rear by an extensive wood. 
He posted his troops on the declivity of the hill in one compact mass, 
covered with their shields, and wielding their enormous battle-axes. 
In the centre the royal standard, or gonfanon, was fixed in the ground, 
with the figure of an armed warrior, worked in thread of gold, and 
ornamented with precious stones. Here stood Harold, and his broth- 
ers Gurth and Leofwin, and around them the rest of the Saxon army, 
every man on foot. 

" As the Normans approached the Saxon intrenchments, the monks 
and priests who accompanied their army retired to a neighboring hill 
to pray, and observe the issue of the battle. A Norman warrior, 
named Taillefer, spurred his horse in front of the line, and, tossing up 
in the air his sword, which he caught again in his hand, sang the na- 
tional song of Charlemagne and Roland ; — the Normans joined in 
,he chorus, and shouted, ' Dieu aide ! Dieu aide ! ' They were an- 
16* 



37-4 whea.ton's history of the Northmen. 

swercd by the Saxons, with the adverse cry of ' Christ's rood ! the 
holy rood ! 

" The Gorman archers let fly a shower of arrows into the Saxon 
ranks. Their infantry and cavalry advanced to the gates of the re- 
doubts, Avhich tin 1 )- vainly endeavored to force. The Saxons thun- 
dered upon their armor, and broke their lances with the heavy battle- 
axe, and the Normans retreated to the division commanded by William. 
The Duke then caused his archers again to advance, and to direct 
their arrows obliquely in the air, so that they might fall beyond and 
over the enemy's rampart. The Saxons were severely galled by the 
Norman missiles, and Harold himself was wounded in the eye. The 
attaek of the infantry and men-at-arms again commenced with the 
cries of k Notre-Dame ! Dieu aide ! Dieu aide ! ' But the Normans 
were repulsed, and pursued by the Saxons to a deep ravine, where 
their horses plunged and threw the riders. The melee was here dread- 
ful, and a sudden panic seized the invaders, who fled from the field, 
exelaiming that their duke was slain. William rushed before the fu- 
gitives, with his helmet in hand, menacing and even striking them with 
his lanee, and shouting with a loud voice : ' I am still alive, and with 
the help of God I still shall conquer ! ' The men-at-arms once more 
returned to attaek the redoubts, but they were again repelled by the 
impregnable phalanx of the Saxons. The Duke now resorted to the 
stratagem of ordering a thousand horse to advanee, and then suddenly 
retreat, in the hope of drawing the enemy from his intrenchments. 
The Saxons fell into the snare, and rushed out with their battle-axes 
slung about their necks, to pursue the flying foe. The Normans were 
joined by another body of their own army, and both turned upon the 
Saxons, who were assailed on every side with swords and lances, whilst 
their hands were employed in wielding their enormous battle-axes. 
The invaders now rushed through the broken ranks of their opponents 
into the intrenehments, pulled down the royal standard, and erected in 
its plaee the papal banner. Harold was slain, with his brothers Gurth 
and Leofwin. The sun declined in the western horizon, and with his 
retiring beams sunk the glory of the Saxon name. 



WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 375 

" The rest of the companions of Harold fled from the fatal field, 
where the Normans passed the night, exulting over their hard-earned 
victory. The next morning, William ranged his troops under arms, 
and every man who passed the sea was called by name, according to 
the muster-roll drawn up before their embarkation at St. Valery. 
Many were deaf to that call. The invading army consisted originally 
of nearly sixty thousand men, and of these one fourth lay dead on the 
field. To the fortunate survivors was allotted the spoil of the van- 
quished Saxons, as the first fruits of their victory ; and the bodies of 
the slain, after being stripped, were hastily buried by their trembling 
friends. According to one narrative, the body of Harold was begged 
by his mother as a boon from William, to whom she offered as a ran- 
som its weight in gold. But the -stern and pitiless conqueror ordered 
the corpse of the Saxon king to be buried on the beach, adding, with 
a sneer, ' He guarded the coast while he lived, let him continue to 
guard it now he is dead.' Another account represents that two monks 
of the monastery of Waltham. which had been founded by the son of 
Godwin, humbly approached the Norman, and offered him ten marks 
of gold for permission to bury their king and benefactor. They were 
unable to distinguish his body among the heaps of slain, and sent for 
Harold's mistress, Editha, surnamed ' the Fair' and ' the Swan's Neck,' 
to assist them in the search. The features of the Saxon monarch 
were recognized by her whom he had loved, and his body was interred 
at Waltham, with regal honors, in the presence of several Norman 
earls and knights." 

We have reached the conclusion of Mr. Wheaton's interest- 
ing volume, yet we are tempted to add a few words more from 
other sources. We would observe that there are not wanting 
historians who dispute the whole story of Harold having fallen 
on the field of battle. " Years afterwards," we are told by one 
of the most curiously learned of English scholars, "when the 
Norman yoke pressed heavily upon the English, and the battle 



37 G WHEATON'S HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 

of Hastings had become a tale of sorrow, which old men nar« 
rated by the light of the embers, until warned to silence by the 
sullen tolling of the curfew," there was an ancient anchorite, 
maimed and scarred and blind of an eye, who led a life of 
penitence and seclusion in a cell near the Abbey of St. John 
at Chester. This holy man was once visited by Henry I., who 
held a long and secret discourse with him, and on his death-bed 
he declared to the attendant monks that he was Harold.* Ac- 
cording to this account, he had been secretly conveyed from 
the field of battle to a castle, and thence to this sanctuary ; 
and the finding and burying of his corpse by the tender 
Edith a is supposed to have been a pious fraud. The monks of 
Waltham, however, stood up stoutly for the authenticity of their 
royal relics. They showed a tomb, inclosing a mouldering 
skeleton, the bones of which still bore the marks of wounds 
received in battle, while the sepulchre bore the effigies of the 
monarch, and this brief but pathetic epitaph : Hicjacet Harold 
infelix? 

For a long time after the eventful battle of the Conquest, it 
is said that traces of blood might be seen upon the field, and, 
in particular, upon the hills to the southwest of Hastings, 
whenever a light rain moistened the soil. It is probable they 
were discolorations of the soil, where heaps of the slain had 
been buried. We have ourselves seen broad and dark patches 
on the hill-side of Waterloo, where thousands of the dead lay 
mouldering in one common grave, and where, for several years 
after the battle, the rank green corn refused to ripen, though 
all the other part of the hill was covered with a golden har- 
dest. 

William the Conqueror, in fulfilment of a vow, caused a mo* 
* Palgrave, Hist. Eng. Chap. XY. 



WHEATONS HISTORY OF THE NORTHMEN. 377 

nastic pile to be erected on the field, which, in commemoration 
of the event, was called the " Abbey of Battle." The archi- 
tects complained that there were no springs of water on the 
site. " Work on ! work on ! " replied he, jovially ; " if God but 
grant me life, there shall flow more good wine among the holy 
friars of this convent, than there does clear water in the best 
monastery of Christendom." 

The abbey was richly endowed, and invested with archiepis- 
copal jurisdiction. In its archives was deposited a roll, bearing 
the names of the followers of William, among whom he had 
shared the conquered land. The grand altar was placed on 
the very spot where the banner of the hapless Harold had been 
unfurled, and here prayers were perpetually to be offered up 
for the repose of all who had fallen in the contest. " All this 
pomp and solemnity," adds Mr. Palgrave, " has passed away 
like a dream ! The perpetual prayer has ceased forever ; the 
roll of battle is rent ; the escutcheons of the Norman lineages 
are trodden in the dust. A dark and reedy pool marks where 
the abbey once reared its stately towers, and nothing but the 
foundations of the choir remain for the gaze of the idle visitor, 
and the instruction of the moping antiquary." 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

Review of a Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada, from the 

MSS. of Fray Antonio Agapida.* 

There are a few places scattered about this " working-day 
world " which seem to be elevated above its dull prosaic level, 
and to be clothed with the magic lights and tints of poetry. 
They possess a charmed name, the very mention of which, as 
if by fairy power, conjures up splendid scenes and pageants of 
the past ; summons from " death's dateless night " the shadows 
of the great and good, the brave and beautiful, and fills the 
mind with visions of departed glory. Such is preeminently 
the case with Granada, one of the most classical names in the 
history of latter ages. The very nature of the country and the 
climate contributes to bewitch the fancy. The Moors, we are 
told, while in possession of the land, had wrought it up to a 
wonderful degree of prosperity. The hills were clothed with 
orchards and vineyards, the valleys embroidered with gardens, 
and the plains covered with waving grain. Here were seen in 
profusion the orange, the citron, the fig, the pomegranate, and 
the silk-producing mulberry. The vine clambered from tree to 
tree, the grapes hung in rich clusters about the peasant's cot- 
tage, and the groves were rejoiced by the perpetual song of the 

* Note by the Author. This review, published in the London Quarterly Review 
for 1830, was written by the author at the request of his London publisher, tc 
explain the real nature of his work, and its claim to historic truth. 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 379 

nightingale. In a word, so beautiful was the earth, so pure the 
air, and so serene the sky of this delicious region, that the 
Moors imagined the paradise of their prophet to be situate in 
that part of the heaven which overhung their kingdom of 
Granada. 

But what has most contributed to impart to Granada a great 
and permanent interest, is the ten years' war of which it was 
the scene, and which closed the splendid drama of Moslem 
domination in Spain. For nearly eight centuries had the 
Spaniards been recovering, piece by piece, and by dint of the 
sword, that territory which had been wrested from them by 
their Arab invaders in little more than as many months. The 
kingdom of Granada was the last stronghold of Moorish 
power, and the favorite abode of Moorish luxury. The final 
struggle for it was maintained with desperate valor ; and the 
compact nature of the country, hemmed in by the ocean and 
by lofty mountains, and the continual recurrence of the names 
of the same monarchs and commanders throughout the war, 
give to it a peculiar distinctness, and an almost epic unity. 

But though this memorable war had often been made the 
subject of romantic fiction, and though the very name possessed 
a spell upon the imagination, yet it had never been fully and 
distinctly treated. The world at large had been content to 
receive a strangely perverted idea of it, through Florian's ro- 
mance of " Gonsalvo of Cordova;" or through the legend, 
equally fabulous, entitled " The Civil Wars of Granada," by 
Ginez Perez de la Hita, the pretended work of an Arabian 
contemporary, but in reality a Spanish fabrication.* Tt had 

* The following censure on the work of La Hita is passed by old Padre 
Echevarria, in his Paseos por Granada, or Walks through Granada. " Esta es 
una historia toda fabulosa, cuyo autor se ignora, por mas que corra con el rom- 



380 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

been woven over with love-tales and scenes of sentimental 
gallantry, totally opposite to its real character ; for it was, in 
truth, one of the sternest of those iron contests which have 
been sanctified by the title of " holy wars." In fact, the gen- 
uine nature of the war placed it far above the need of any 
amatory embellishments. It possessed sufficient interest in 
the striking contrast presented by the combatants, of Oriental 
and European creeds, costumes, and manners ; and in the 
hardy and hair-brained enterprises, the romantic adventures, 
the picturesque forages through mountain regions, the daring 
assaults and surprisals of cliff-built castles and cragged for- 
tresses, which succeeded each other with a variety and brill 
iancy beyond the scope of mere invention. 

The time of the contest also contributed to heighten the 
interest. It was not long after the invention of gunpowder, 
when fire-arms and artillery mingled the flash, smoke, and 
thunder of modern warfare with the steely splendor of ancient 
chivalry, and gave an awful magnificence and terrible sublimity 
to battle ; and when the old Moorish towers and castles, that 
for ages had frowned defiance to the battering-rams and cata- 
pults of classic tactics, were toppled down by the lorn bards of 
the Spanish engineers. It was one of those cases in which 
history rises superior to notion. The author seems to have 
been satisfied of this fact, by the manner in which he has con- 
structed the present work. The idea of it, we are told, was 
suggested to him while in Spain, occupied upon his " History of 
the Life and Voyages of Columbus." The application of the 
great navigator to the Spanish sovereigns, for patronage to his 

bre de alguno. llena de cuentos y quimeras, en la que apenas si hallaran seis 
verdades, y estas desfiguradas." Such is the true character of a work which has 
hitherto served as a fountain of historic fact concerning the conquest of Granada 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 381 

project of discovery, was made during their crusade against the 
Moors of Granada, and continued throughout the residue of 
that war. Columbus followed the court in several of its cam- 
paigns, mingled occasionally in the contest, and was actually 
present at the grand catastrophe of the enterprise, the sur- 
render of the metropolis. The researches of Mr. Irving, in 
tracing the movements of his hero, led him to the various 
chronicles of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. He be- 
came deeply interested in the details of the war, and was 
induced, while collecting materials for the biography he had in 
hand, to make preparation also for the present history. He 
subsequently made a tour in Andalusia, visited the ruins of the 
Moorish towns, fortresses, and castles, and the wild mountain 
passes and defiles which had been the scenes of the most re- 
markable events of the war ; and passed some time in the 
ancient palace of the Alhambra, once the favorite abode of the 
Moorish monarchs in Granada. It was then, while his mind 
was still excited by the romantic scenery around him, and by 
the chivalrous and poetical associations which throw a moral 
interest over every feature of Spanish landscape, that he com- 
pleted these volumes. 

His great object appears to have been, to produce a com- 
plete and authentic body of facts relative to the war in question, 
but arranged in such a manner as to be attractive to the reader 
for mere amusement. He has, therefore, diligently sought for 
his materials among the ancient chronicles, both printed and in 
manuscript, which were written at the time by eye-witnesses, 
and, in some instances, by persons who had actually mingled in 
the scenes recorded. These chronicles were often diffuse and 
tedious, and occasionally discolored by the bigotry, superstition, 
and fierce intolerance of the age; but their pages were illu- 



6$'2 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

mined, at times, with scenes of high emprize, of romantic 
generosity, and heroic valor, which flashed upon the reader 
with additional splendor, from the surrounding darkness. It 
has been the study of the author to bring forth these scenes in 
their strongest light; to arrange them in clear and lucid order; 
to give them somewhat of a graphic effect, by connecting them 
with the manners and customs of the age in which they oc- 
curred, and with the splendid scenery amidst which they took 
place ; and thus, while he preserved the truth and chrono- 
logical order of events, to impart a more impressive and en- 
tertaining character to his narrative, than regular histories 
are accustomed to possess. By these means his chronicle, at 
times, wears almost the air of romance ; yet the story is au- 
thenticated by frequent reference to existing documents, prov- 
ing that he has substantial foundation for his most extraor- 
dinary incidents. 

There is, however, another circumstance, by which Mr. Irv- 
ing has more seriously impaired the ex-facie credibility of his 
narrative. He has professed to derive his materials from the 
manuscripts of an ancient Spanish monk, Fray Antonio Aga- 
pida, whose historical productions are represented as existing in 
disjointed fragments, in the archives of the Escurial and other 
conventual libraries. He often quotes the very words of the 
venerable friar ; particularly when he bursts forth in exag- 
gerated praises of the selfish policy or bigot zeal of Ferdinand ; 
or chants, " with pious exultation, the united triumphs of the 
cross and the sword." This friar is manifestly a mere fiction 
— a stalking-horse, from behind which the author launches his 
satire at the intolerance of that persecuting age, and at the 
errors, the inconsistencies, and the self-delusions of the singular 
medley of warriors, saints, politicians, and adventurers engaged 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 383 

in that holy war. Fray Antonio, however, may be considered 
as an incarnation of the blind bigotry and zealot extravagance 
of the " good old orthodox Spanish chroniclers ; " and, in fact, 
his exaggerated sallies of loyalty and religion are taken, almost 
word for word, from the works of some one or other of the 
monkish historians. Still, though this fictitious personage has 
enabled the author to indulge his satirical vein at once more 
freely and more modestly, and has diffused over his page 
something of the quaintness of the cloister, and the tint of the 
country and the period, the use of such machinery has thrown 
a doubt upon the absolute verity of his history ; and it will take 
some time before the general mass of readers become con- 
vinced that the pretended manuscript of Fray Antonio Aga- 
pida is, in truth, a faithful digest of actual documents. 

The chronicle opens with the arrival of a Spanish cavalier at 
Granada, with a demand of arrears of tribute, on the part of 
Ferdinand and Isabella, from Muley Aben Hassan, the Moor- 
ish king. This measure is well understood to have been a 
crafty device of Ferdinand. The tribute had become obsolete, 
and he knew it would be indignantly refused ; but he had set 
his heart on driving the Moors out of their last Spanish do- 
minions, and he now sought a cause of quarrel. 

"Muley Aben Hassan received the cavalier in state, seated on a 
magnificent divan, and surrounded by the officers of his court, in the 
Hall of Ambassadors, one of the most sumptuous apartments of the 
Alhambra. When De Yera had delivered his message, a haughty 
and bitter smile curled the lip of the fierce monarch. ' Tell your 
sovereigns,' said he, ' that the kings of Granada who used to pay 
tribute in money to the Castilian crown, are dead. Our mint at 
present coins nothing but blades of scimitars and heads of lancea.' * 
—Vol. I. p. 10. 



38-1 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

The fiery old Moslem had here given a very tolerable pretexl 
for immediate war ; yet King Ferdinand forbore to strike the 
blow. He was just then engaged in a contest with Portugal, 
the cause of which Mr. Irving leaves unnoticed, as irrelevant 
to his subject. It is, however, a curious morsel of history, in- 
volving the singular and romantic fortunes of the fair Juana of 
Castile, by many considered the rightful heir to the crown. It 
is illustrative, also, of the manners of the age of which this 
chronicle peculiarly treats, and of the character and policy of 
the Spanish sovereign who figures throughout its ]^ges ; a 
brief notice of it, therefore, may not be unacceptable. 

Henry IV. of Castile, one of the most imbecile of kings and 
credulous of husbands, had lived for five years in sterile wed- 
lock with his queen, a gay and buxom princess of Portugal, 
when, at length, she rejoiced him by the birth of the Infanta 
Juana. The horn of the king was, of course, exalted on this 
happy occasion, but the whisper was diligently circulated about 
the court, that he was indebted for the tardy honors of pater- 
nity to the good offices of Don Beltran de Cuevas, Count of 
Ledesma, a youthful and gallant cavalier, who had enjoyed the 
peculiar favor and intimacy of the queen. The story soon took 
wind, and became a theme of popular clamor. Henry, how- 
ever, with the good easy faith, or passive acquiescence of an 
imbecile mind, continued to love and honor his queen, and to 
lavish favors on her paramour, whom he advanced in rank, 
making him his prime minister, and giving him the title of 
Duke of Albuquerque. Such blind credulity is not permitted, 
in this troublesome world, to kings more than to common men. 
The public were furious ; civil commotions took place ; Henry 
was transiently deposed, and was only reinstated in his royal 
dignity, on signing a treaty, by which he divorced his wife, 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 385 

disowned her child, and promised to send them both to Por- 
tugal. His connubial faith ultimately revived, in defiance of 
every trial, and on his death-bed he recognized the Infanta 
Juana as his daughter and legitimate successor. The public, 
however, who will not allow even kings to be infallible judges 
in cases of the kind, persisted in asserting the illegitimacy of 
the Infanta ; and gave her the name of La Beltranaja, in allu- 
sion to her supposed father, Don Beltran.* No judicial inves- 
tigation took place, but the question was decided as a point of 
faith, or a notorious fact ; and the youthful princess, though 
of great beauty and merit, was set aside, and the crown ad- 
judged to her father's sister, the renowned Isabella. 

It should be observed, however, that the charge of illegiti- 
macy is maintained principally by Spanish writers ; the Portu- 
guese historians reject it as a calumny. Even the classic 
Mariana expresses an idea that it might have been an in- 
vention or exaggeration, founded on the weakness of Henry 
IV. and the amorous temperament of his queen,f and artfully 
devised to favor the views of the crafty Ferdinand, who laid 
claim to the crown as the righful inheritance of his spouse, 
Isabella. 

Young, beautiful, and unfortunate, the discarded princess 
was not long in want of a champion in that heroic age. Her 
mother's brother, the brave Alonzo V. of Portugal, surnamed 
el Lidiador, or the Combatant, from his exploits against the 
Moors of Africa, stepped forward as her vindicator, and marched 
into Spain at the head of a gallant army, to place her on the 
throne. He asked her hand in marriage, and it was yielded. 
The espousals were publicly solemnized at Placentia, but were 

* Pulgar, Chron. cle los Reyes CatoHcos, c. 1, note A. 
f Mariana, lib. xxii. c. 20. 



HSG CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

not consummated, the consanguinity of the parties obliging 
them to wait for a dispensation from the Pope. 

All the southern provinces of Castile, with a part of Gallicia, 
declared in favor of Juana, and town after town yielded to the 
arms or the persuasion of Alonzo, as he advanced. The major- 
ity of the kingdom, however, rallied round the standard of Fer- 
dinand and Isabella. The latter assembled their warrior nobles 
at A'alladolid, and amidst the chivalrous throng that appeared 
glittering in arms, was Don Beltran, Duke of Albuquerque, 
the surmised father of Juana. His predicament was singular 
and delicate. If, in truth, the father of Juana, natural affec- 
tion called upon him to support her interests ; if she were not 
his child, then she had an unquestionable right to the crown, 
and it was his duty, as a true cavalier, to support her claim. 
It is even said that he had pledged himself to Alonzo, to stand 
forth in loyal adherence to the virgin queen; but when he 
saw the array of mailed warriors and powerful nobles that 
thronged round Ferdinand and Isabella, he trembled for his 
great estates, and tacitly mingled with the crowd.* The gal- 
lant inroad of Alonzo into Spain was attended with many vicis- 
situdes ; he could not maintain his footing against the superior 
force of Ferdinand, and being defeated in a decisive battle, 
between Zamora and Toro, was obliged to retire from Castile. 
He conducted his beautiful and yet virgin bride into Portugal, 
where she was received as queen with great acclamations. 
There leaving her in security, he repaired to France, to 
seek assistance from Louis XI. During this absence, Pope 
Sixtus IV. granted the dispensation for his marriage. It was 
cautiously worded, and secretly given, that it might escape the 
knowledge of Ferdinand, until carried into effect. It author- 

* Pulgar part ii. cap. xxii. 



CONQUEST .OF GRANADA. 387 

ized the king of Portugal to marry any relative not allied to 
him in the first degree of consanguinity, but avoided naming 
the bride.* 

The negotiation of Alonzo at the court of France was pro- 
tracted during many weary months, and was finally defeated by 
the superior address of Ferdinand. He returned to Portugal, 
to forget his vexations in the arms of his blooming bride ; but 
even here he was again disappointed by the crafty intrigues of 
his rival. The pliant pontiff' had been prevailed upon to issue 
a patent bull, overruling his previous dispensation, as having 
been obtained without naming both of the persons to be united 
in marriage, and as having proved the cause of wars and blood- 
shed. f The royal pair were thus obliged to meet in the rela- 
tions of uncle and niece, instead of husband and wife. Peace 
was finally negotiated by the intervention of friends, on the 
condition that Donna Juana should either take the veil and 
become a nun, or should be wedded to Don Juan, the infant 
son and heir of Ferdinand and Isabella, as soon as he should 
arrive at a marriageable age. This singular condition, which 
would place her on the throne from which she had been ex 
eluded, has been adduced as a proof of her legitimate right. 

Alonzo V. was furious, and rejected the treaty ; but Donna 
Juana shrunk from being any longer the cause of war and 
bloodshed, and determined to devote herself to celibacy and 
religion. All the entreaties of the king were of no avail ; she 
took the irrevocable vows, and, exchanging her royal robes 
for the humble habit of a Franciscan nun, entered the convent 
of Santa Clara, with all the customary solemnities ; not having 
yet completed her nineteenth year, and having been four years 
a virgin wife. All authors concur in giving her a most amia- 

* Zurita, Annales. t Zurita. 



888 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

ble and exemplary character ; and Garibay says " she was 
named, for her virtues, La JExcelIe?ita, and left a noble example 
to the world. Her retirement," he adds, " occasioned great 
affliction to King Alonzo, and grief to many others, who be- 
held so exquisite a lady reduced to such great humility." * 

The king, in a transport of tender melancholy, took a sud- 
den resolution, characteristic of that age, when love and chiv- 
alry and religion were strangely intermingled. Leaving his 
capital on a feigned pretence, he repaired to a distant city, and 
there, laying aside his royal state, set forth on a pilgrimage to 
Jerusalem, attended merely by a chaplain and two grooms. 
He had determined to renounce the pomp, and glories, and 
vanities of the world ; and, after humbling himself at the holy 
sepulchre, to devote himself to a religious life. He sent back 
one of his attendants, with letters, in which he took a tender 
leave of Donna Juana, and directed his son to assume the 
crown. His letters threw the court into great affliction ; his 
son was placed on the throne, but several of the ancient cour- 
tiers set out in pursuit of the pilgrim king. They overtook 
him far on his journey, and prevailed on him to return and 
resume his sceptre, which was dutifully resigned to him by his 
son. Still restless and melancholy, Alonzo afterwards under- 
took a crusade for the recovery of the holy sepulchre, and pro- 
ceeded to Italy with a fleet and army ; but was discouraged 
from the enterprise by the coldness of Pope Pius II. He 
then returned to Portugal ; and his love melancholy reviving 
in the vicinity of Donna Juana, he determined, out of a kind 
of romantic sympathy, to imitate her example, and to take the 
habit of St. Francis. His sadness and depression, however, 
increased to such a degree as to overwhelm his forces, and he 

* Garibay, Compend. ffisl., lib. xxxv. cap. 19. 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 38i> 

died, in 1481, at Cintra, in .the chamber in which he was 
born.* 

. We cannot close the brief record of this romantic story with- 
out noticing the subsequent fortunes of Donna Juan a. She 
resided in the monastery of Santa Anna, with the seclusion of 
a nun, but the state of a princess. The fame of her beauty 
and her worth drew suitors to the cloisters ; and her hand was 
solicited by the youthful king of Navarre, Don Francisco 
Phebus, surnamed the Handsome. His courtship, however, 
was cut short by his sudden death, in 1483, which was sur- 
mised to have been caused by poison.f For six-and-twenty 
years did the royal nun continue shut up in holy seclusion 
from the world. The desire of youth and the pride of beauty 
had long passed away, when suddenly, in 1505, Ferdinand 
himself, her ancient enemy, the cause of all her sorrows and 
disappointments, appeared as a suitor for her hand. His own 
illustrious queen, the renowned Isabella, was dead, and had 
bequeathed her hereditary crown of Castile to their daughter. 
for whose husband, Philip I., he had a jealous aversion. It 
was supposed that the crafty and ambitious monarch intended, 
after marrying Juana, to revive her claim to that throne, 
from which his own hostility had excluded her. His con- 
duct in this instance is another circumstance strongly in favor 
of the lawful right of Juana to the crown of Castile. The 
vanity of the world, however, was dead in the tranquil bo- 
som of the princess, and the grandeur of a throne had no 
longer attraction in her eyes. She rejected the suit of the 
most politic and perfidious of monarchs ; and, continuing faith- 
ful to her vows, passed the remainder of her days in the con- 

* Faria y Sousa, Hist. Portugal, p. iii. cap. xiii. 
f Abarca, Reyes de Aragon, Key. 30, cap. 2. 
17 



390 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

vent of Santa Anna, where she died in all the odor of holi- 
ness, and of immaculate and thrice-proved virginity, which had 
passed unscorched even through the fiery ordeal of matri- 
mony. 

To return to, Mr. Irving's narrative. Ferdinand having 
successfully terminated the war with Portugal, and seated 
himself and Isabella firmly on the throne of Castile, turned 
his attention to his contemplated project — the conquest of 
Granada. His plan of operations was characteristic of his 
cautious and crafty nature. He determined to proceed step 
by step, taking town after town, and fortress after fortress, 
before he attempted the Moorish capital. " I will pick out the 
seeds of this pomegranate one by one," said the wary monarch, 
in allusion to Granada, — the Spanish name both for the king- 
dom and the fruit. The intention of the Catholic sovereign 
did not escape the eagle eye of old Muley Aben Hassan. Be- 
ing, however, possessed of great treasures, and having placed 
his territories in a warlike posture, and drawn auxiliary troops 
from his allies, the princes of Barbary, he felt confident in his 
means of resistance. His subjects were fierce of spirit, and 
stout of heart — inured to the exercises of war, and patient 
of fatigue, hunger, thirst, and nakedness. Above all, they 
were dexterous horsemen, whether heavily armed and fully 
appointed, or lightly mounted a la geneta, with merely lance 
and target. Adroit in all kinds of stratagems, impetuous in 
attack, quick to disperse, prompt to rally and to return like a 
whirlwind to the charge, they were considered the best of troops 
for daring inroads, sudden scourings, and all kinds of partisan 
warfare. In fact, they have bequeathed their wild and pred- 
atory spirit to Spain ; and her bandaleros. her contraband- 
istas, and her guerrillas, her marauders of the mountain, and 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 391 

scamperers of the plain, may all be traced back to the bel- 
ligerent era of the Moors. 

The truce which had existed between the Catholic sov- 
ereign and the king of Granada contained a singular clause, 
characteristic of the wary and dangerous situation of the 
two neighboring nations, with respect to each other. It per- 
mitted either party to make sudden inroads and assaults upon 
towns and fortresses, provided they were done furtively and 
by stratagem, without display of banner or sound of trum- 
pet, or regular encampment, and that they did not last above 
three days. This gave rise to frequent enterprises of a hardy 
and adventurous character, in which castles and strongholds 
were taken by surprise, and carried sword in hand. Monu- 
ments of these border scourings, and the jealous watchful- 
ness awakened by them, may still be seen by the traveller in 
every part of .Spain, but particularly in Andalusia. The 
mountains which formed the barriers of the Christian and 
Moslem territories are still crested with ruined watch-towers, 
where the helmed and turbaned sentinels kept a look-out on 
the Vega of Granada, or the plains of the Guadalquivir. 
Every rugged pass has its dismantled fortress, and every 
town and village, and even hamlet, the mountain or valley, 
its strong tower of defence. Even on the beautiful little 
stream of the Guadayra, which now winds peacefully among 
flowery banks and groves of myrtles and oranges, to throw 
itself into the Guadalquivir, the Moorish mills, which have 
studded its borders for centuries, have each its battlemented 
tower, where the miller and his family could take refuge until 
the foray which swept the plains, and made hasty sack and 
plunder in its career, had passed away. Such was the situa- 
tion of Moor and Spaniard in those days, when the sword 



'302 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

and spear hung ready on the wall of every cottage, and the 
humblest toils of husbandry were performed with the weapon 
close at hand. 

The outbreaking of the war of Granada is in keeping 
with this picture. The fierce old king, Muley Aben Hassan, 
had determined to anticipate his adversary, and strike the 
first blow. The fortress of Zahara Avas the object of his 
attack ; and the description of it may serve for that of many 
of those old warrior towns which remain from the time of 
the Moors, built, like eagle-nests, among the wild mountains 
of Andalusia. 

" This important post was on the frontier, between Ronda and 
Medina Sidonia, and was built on the crest of a rocky mountain, 
with a strong castle perched above it, upon a cliff so high that it 
was said to be above the flight of birds or drift of clouds. The 
streets, and many of the houses, were mere excavations, wrought 
out of the living rock. The town had but one gate, opening to the 
west, and defended by towers and bulwarks. The only ascent to 
this cragged fortress was by roads cut in the rock, and so rugged 
as in many places to resemble broken stairs. Such was the situa- 
tion of the mountain fortress of Zahara, which seemed to set all 
attack at defiance, insomuch that it had become so proverbial through- 
out Spain, that a woman of forbidding and inaccessible virtue was 
called a Zaharena. But the strongest fortress and sternest virtue 
have their weak points, and require unremitting vigilance to guard 
them : let warrior and dame take warning from the fate of Zahara." 

Muley Aben Hassan made a midnight attack upon this 
fortress during a howling wintry storm, which had driven 
the very sentinels from their posts. He scaled the walls, 
and gained possession of both town and castle before the 
garrison were roused to arms. Such of the inhabitants a? 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 393 

made resistance were cut down, the rest were taken prisoners, 
and driven, men, women, and children, like a herd of cat- 
tle, to Granada. 

The capture of Zahara was as an electric shock to the chiv- 
alry of Spain. Among those roused to action was Don Rod- 
rigo Ponce de Leon, Marquis of Cadiz, who is worthy of 
particular notice as being the real hero of the war. Florian 
has assigned this honor, in his historical romance, to Gonsalvo 
of Cordova, surnamed the Great Captain, who, in fact, per- 
formed but an inferior part in these campaigns. It was in 
the subsequent war of Italy that he acquired his high renown. 
Rodrigo Ponce de Leon is a complete exemplification of the 
Spanish cavalier of the olden time. Temperate, chaste, vigi- 
lant, and valorous ; kind to his vassals, frank towards his 
equals, faithful and loving to his friends, terrible, yet mag- 
nanimous to his enemies ; contemporary historians extol him 
as the mirror of chivalry, and compare him to the immortal 
Cid. His ample possessions extended over the most fertile 
parts of Andalusia, including many towns and fortresses. 
A host of retainers, ready to follow him to danger or to 
death, fed in his castle hall, which waved with banners taken 
from the Moors. His armories glittered with helms and 
.uirasses, and weapons of all kinds, ready burnished for use, 
and his stables were filled with hardy steeds trained to a 
mountain scamper. This ready preparation aro&e not merely 
from his residence on the Moorish border ; he had a formi- 
dable foe near at hand, in Juan de Guzman, Duke of Medina 
Sidonia, one of the most wealthy of Spanish nobles. We 
shall notice one or two particulars of his earlier life, which 
our author has omitted, as not within the scope of his chron- 
icle, but which would have given additional interest to some 



394 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

of its scenes. An hereditary feud subsisted between these 
two noblemen ; and as Ferdinand and Isabella had not yet 
succeeded in their plan of reducing the independent and 
dangerous power of the nobles of Spain, the whole province 
of Andalusia was convulsed by their strife. They waged 
war against each other like sovereign princes, regarding 
neither the authority of the crown nor the welfare of the 
country. Every fortress and castle became a stronghold 
of their partisans, and a kind of club law prevailed over the 
land, like the faust recht once exercised by the robber counts 
of Germany. The sufferings of the province awakened the 
solicitude of Isabella, and brought her to Seville, where, 
seated on a throne in a great hall of the Alcazar or Moorish 
palace, she held an open audience to receive petitions and 
complaints. The nobles of the province hastened to do her 
homage. The Marquis of Cadiz alone did not appear. The 
Duke of Medina Sidonia accused him of having been trea- 
sonably in the interest of Portugal, in the late war of the 
succession ; of exercising tyrannical sway over certain royal 
domains ; of harassing the subjects of the crown with his 
predatory bands, and keeping himself aloof in warlike de- 
fiance, in his fortified city of Xeres. The continued absence 
of the marquis countenanced these charges, and they were 
reiterated by the relations and dependents of the duke, who 
thronged and controlled the ancient city of Seville. The 
indignation of the queen was roused, and she determined 
to reduce the supposed rebel by force of arms. Tidings of 
these events were conveyed to Ponce de Leon, and roused 
him to vindicate his honor with frankness and decision. He 
instantly set off from Xeres, attended by a single servant. 
Spurring across the country, and traversing the hostile city 



CONQUKST OF GRANADA. 395 

he entered the palace by a private portal, and penetrating to 
the apartment of the queen, presented himself suddenly before 
her. 

" Behold me here, most potent sovereign ! '' exclaimed he, " to 
answer any charge in person. I come not to accuse others, but to 
vindicate myself; not to deal in words, but in deeds. It is said that 
1 hold Xeres and Alcala fortified and garrisoned, in defiance of your 
authority : send and take possession of them, for they are yours. Do 
you require my partrimonial hereditaments? From this chamber 
T will direct their surrender ; and here I deliver up my very person 
into your power. As to the other charges, let investigation be made ; 
and if I stand not clear and loyal, impose on me whatever pain or 
penalty you may think proper to inflict." * 

Isabella saw in the intrepid frankness of the marquis strong 
proof of innocence, and declared, that had she thought him 
guilty, his gallant confidence would have insured her clem- 
ency. She took possession of the fortresses surrendered, 
but caused the duke to give up equally his military posts, 
and to free Seville from these distracting contests, ordered 
either chief to dwell on his estate. Such was the feud be- 
twixt these rival nobles at the time when the old Moorish 
king captured and sacked Zahara. 

The news of this event stirred up the warrior spirit of 
Ponce de Leon to retaliation. He sent out his scouts, and soon 
learnt that the town of Alhama was assailable. "This was 
a large, wealthy, and populous place, which, from its strong 
position on a rocky height, within a few leagues of the Moor- 
ish capital, had acquired the appellation of the ' Key of Gra- 
nada.' " The marquis held conference with the most im- 
portant commanders of Andalusia, excepting the Duke of 

* Pulgar, c. Ixx., &c. 



I'9f> CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

Medina Sidonia, his deadly foe, and concerted a secret march 
through the mountain passes to Alhama, which he surprised 
and carried. We forbear to follow the author in his de- 
tail of this wild and perilous enterprise, the success of which 
struck deep consternation in the Moors of Granada. The 
exclamation of " Ay de mi, Alhama ! — Woe is me, Alhama ! " 
was in every mouth. It has become the burden of a mourn- 
ful Spanish ballad, supposed of Moorish origin, which has 
been translated by Lord Byron. 

The Marquis of Cadiz and his gallant companions, now 
in possession of Alhama, were but a handful of men, in the 
heart of an enemy's country, and were surrounded by a pow- 
erful army, led by the fierce King of Granada. They dis- 
patched messengers to Seville and Cordova, describing their 
perilous situation, and imploring aid. Nothing could equal 
the anguish of the Marchioness of Cadiz on hearing" of the 
danger of her lord. She looked round in her deep distress 
for some powerful noble, competent to raise the force requisite 
for his deliverance. No one was so competent as the Duke 
of Medina Sidonia. To many, however, he would have seemed 
the last person to whom to apply ; but she judged of him by 
her own high and generous mind, and did not hesitate. The 
event showed how well noble spirits understand each other. 

" He immediately dispatched a courteous letter to the marchioness, 
assuring her that, in consideration of the request of so honorable and 
estimable a lady, and to rescue from peril so valiant a cavalier as her 
husband, whose loss would be great, not only to Spain, but to all 
Christendom, he would forego the recollection of all past grievances 
and hasten to his relief The duke wrote at the same time to the al- 
r aydes of his towns and fortresses, ordering them to join him forth- 
with at Seville, with all the force they could spare from their garri- 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 397 

sons. He called on all the chivalry of Andalusia to make a common 
'jause in the rescue of those Christian cavaliers ; and he offered large 
pay to all volunteers who would resort to him with horses, armor, and 
provisions. Thus all who could be incited by honor, religion, patriotism, 
or thirst of gain, were induced to hasten to his standard ; and he took 
the field with an army of five thousand horse and fifty thousand foot." 

Ferdinand was in church at Medina del Campo when he 
heard of the achievement and the peril of his gallant cavaliers, 
and set out instantly to aid in person in their rescue. He 
wrote to the Duke of Medina Sidonia to pause for him on the 
frontier ; but it was a case of life and death : the duke left a 
message to that effect for his sovereign, and pressed on his un- 
ceasing march. He arrived just in time, when the garrison, 
reduced to extremity by incessant skirmishes and assaults, and 
the want of water, and resembling skeletons rather than living 
men, were on the point of falling into the hands of the enemy. 
Muley Aben Hassan, who commanded the siege in person, tore 
his beard when his scouts brought him word of their arrival. 

" They had seen from the heights the long columns and flaunting 
banners of the Christian army approaching through the mountains. 
To linger would be to place himself between two bodies of the enemy. 
Breaking up his camp, therefore, in all haste, he gave up the siege of 
Alhama, and hastened back to Granada ; and the last clash of his 
cymbals scarce died upon the ear from the distant hills, before the 
standard of the Duke of Medina Sidonia was seen emerging in an- 
other direction from the defiles of the mountains. ... It was a noble 
and gracious sight to behold the meeting of those two ancient foes, the 
Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Marquis of Cadiz. When the mar- 
quis beheld his magnanimous deliverer approaching, he melted into 
tears : all past animosities only gave the greater poignancy to present 
feelings of gratitude and admiration ; they clasped each other in their 
arms ; and, from that time forward, were true and cordial friends." 
17* 



$98 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

Having duly illustrated these instances of chivalrous hardi- 
hood and noble magnanimity, the author shifts his scene from 
the Christian camp to the Moslem hall, and gives us a peep 
into the interior of the Alhambra, and the domestic policy of 
the Moorish monarchs. The old King of Granada was per- 
plexed, not merely with foreign wars, but with family feuds, 
and seems to have evinced a kind of tiger character in both. 
He had several wives, two of whom were considered as sul- 
tanas, or queens. One, named Ayxa, was of Moorish origin, 
and surnamed La Horra, or The Chaste, from the purity of her 
manners. Fatima, the other, had been originally a Christian 
captive, and was called, from her beauty, Zoroya, or The Light 
of Dawn. The former had given birth to his eldest son, Ab- 
dalla, or Boabdil, commonly called El Chico, or the Younger ; 
and the latter had brought him two sons. Zoroya abused the 
influence that her youth and beauty gave her over the hoary 
monarch, inducing him to repudiate the virtuous Ayxa, and 
exciting his suspicions against Boabdil to such a degree that he 
determined upon his death. It was the object of Zoroya, by 
these flagitious means, to secure the succession for one of her 
own children. 

" The Sultana Ayxa was secretly apprized of the cruel design of the 
old monarch. She was a woman of talents and courage, and, by 
means of her female attendants, concerted a plan for the escape of her 
son. A faithful servant was instructed to wait below the Alhambra, 
in the dead cf the night, on the banks of the river Darro, with a fle*jt 
Arabian courser. The sultana, when the castle was in a state of deep 
repose, tied together the shawls and scarfs of herself and her female 
attendants, and lowered the youthful prince from the tower of Co- 
mar(;s. He made his way in safety down the steep rocky hill to the 
banks of the Darro, and, throwing himself on the Arabian courser, 
*as thus spirited off to the city of Guadix. Here he lay for some 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 399 

time concealed, until, gaining adherents, he fortified himself in the 
place, and set his tyrant father at defiance. Such was the commence- 
ment of those internal feuds which hastened the downfall of Granada. 
The Moors became separated into two hostile factions, headed by the 
father and the son, and several bloody encounters took place between 
them ; yet they never failed to act with all their separate force against 
the Christians, as a common enemy." 

It is proper in this place to remark, that the present chron- 
icle gives an entirely different character to Boabdil from that 
by which he is usually described. It says nothing of his al- 
leged massacre of the Abencerrages, nor of the romantic story 
of his jealous persecution and condemnation of his queen, and 
her vindication in combat by Christian knights. The massa- 
cre, in fact, if it really did take place, was the deed of his tiger- 
hearted father ; the story of the queen is not to be found in any 
contemporary chronicle, either Spanish or Arabian, and is con- 
sidered by Mr. Irving as a mere fabrication. Boabdil appears 
to have been sometimes rash, at other times irresolute, but 
never cruel. 

As a specimen of the predatory war that prevailed about the 
boiders, we would fain make some extracts from a foray of the 
old Moorish king into the lands of the Duke of Medina Sido- 
nia, who had foiled him before Alhama ; but this our limits for- 
bid. It ends triumphantly for Muley Hassan ; and Boabdil el 
Chico, in consequence, found it requisite for his popularity to 
strike some signal blow that might eclipse the brilliant exploits 
of the rival king, his father. He was in the flower of his age, 
and renowned at joust and tourney, but as yet unproved in the 
field of battle. He was encouraged to make a daring inroad 
into the Christian territories by the father of his favorite sul- 
tana, Ali Atar, alcayde of Loxa, a veteran warrior, ninety 
years of age, whose name was the terror of the borders. 



400 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

" Boabdil assembled a brilliant army of nine thousand foot and 
seven hundred horse, comprising the most illustrious and valiant of the 
Moorish chivalry. His mother, the Sultana Ayxa La Horra, armed 
him for the field, and gave him her benediction as she girded his eime- 
tar to his side. His favorite wife, Morayma, wept as she thought of 
the evils that might befall him. ' Why dost thou weep, daughter of 
Ali Atar ? ' said the high-minded Ayxa ; ' these tears become not the 
daughter of a warrior, nor the wife of a king. Believe me, there 
lurks more danger for a monarch within the strong walls of a palace, 
than within the frail curtains of a tent. It is by perils in the field 
that thy husband must purchase security on his throne.' But Morayma 
still hung upon his neck, with tears and sad forebodings; and when he 
departed from the Alhambra, she betook herself to her mirador, which 
looks out over the Vega, whence she watched the army as it passed in 
shining order along the road that leads to Loxa ; and every burst of 
warlike melody that came swelling on the breeze was answered by a 
gush of sorrow. . . . 

" At Loxa, the royal army was reinforced by old Ali Atar, with the 
chosen horsemen of his garrison, and many of the bravest warriors of 
the border towns. The people of Loxa shouted with exultation when 
they beheld Ali Atar armed at all points, and once more mounted on 
his B-arbary steed, which had often borne him over the borders. The 
veteran warrior, with nearly a century of years upon his head, had 
all the fire and animation of a youth at the prospect of a foray, and 
careered from rank to rank with the velocity of an Arab of the des- 
ert. The populace watched the army as it paraded over the bridge, 
and wound into the passes of the mountains ; and still their eyes were 
fixed upon the pennon of Ali Atar, as if it bore with it an assurance 
of victory." 

The enemy has scarcely had a day's ravage in the Christian 
land, when the alarm-fires give notice that the Moor is over the 
border. Our limits do not permit us to give this picture of the 
sudden rising of a frontier in those times of Moorish inroad. 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 401 

We pass on to the scene of action, when the hardy Count de 
Cabra came up with the foe, having pressed fearlessly forward 
at the head of a handful of household troops and retainers. 

" The Moorish king descried the Spanish forces at a distance, al- 
though a slight fog prevented his seeing them distinctly and ascertain- 
ing their numbers. His old father-in-law, Ali Atar, was by his side, 
who, being a veteran marauder, was well acquainted with all the 
standards and armorial bearings of the frontiers. When the king be- 
held the ancient and long-disused banner of Cabra emerging from the 
mist, he turned to Ali Atar, and demanded whose ensign it was. The 
old borderer was for once at a loss, for the banner had not been dis- 
played in battle in his time. ' Sire,' replied he, after a pause, 'I have 
been considering that standard, but do not know it. It appears to be 
a dog, which is a device borne by the towns of Baeza and Ubeda. 
If it be so, all Andalusia is in movement against you; for it is not 
probable that any single commander or community would venture to 
attack you. I would advise you, therefore, to retire.' 

" The Count of Cabra, in winding down the hill towards the Moors, 
found himself on a much lower station than the enemy. He therefore 
ordered, in all haste, that his standard should be taken back, so as to 
gain the vantage-ground. The Moors, mistaking this for a retreat, 
rushed impetuously towards the Christians. The latter, having gained 
the height proposed, charged down upon them at the same moment, 
with the battle-cry of ' Santiago ! ' and, dealing the first blows, laid 
many of the Moorish cavaliers in the dust. 

" The Moors, thus checked in their tumultuous assault, were thrown 
into confusion, and began to give way, — the Christians following hard 
upon them. Boabdil el Chico endeavored to rally them. ' Hold ! 
hold ! for shame ! ' cried he ; ' let us not fly, at least until we know our 
enemy !' The Moorish chivalry was stung by this reproof, and turned 
to make front, with the valor of men who feel that they are fighting 
under their monarch's eye. At this moment, Lorenzo de Porres, al- 
cayde of Luque, arrived with fifty horse and one hundred foot, sound- 



402 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

ing an Italian trumpet from among a copse of oak-trees, which con- 
cealed his force. The quick ear of old AH Atar caught the note. 
'That is an Italian trumpet,' said he to the king; ' the whole world 
seems in arms against your majesty ! ' The trumpet of Lorenzo de 
Porres was answered by that of the Count de Cabra in another direc- 
tion ; and it seemed to the Moors as if they were between two armies. 
Don Lorenzo, sallying from among the oaks, now charged upon the 
enemy. The latter did not wait to ascertain the force of this new 
foe. The confusion, the variety of alarms, the attacks from opposite 
quarters, the obscurity of the fog, all conspired to deceive them as to 
the number of their adversaries. Broken and dismayed, they re- 
treated fighting ; and nothing but the presence and remonstrances of 
the king prevented their retreat from becoming a headlong flight." 

The skirmishing retreat lasted for about three leagues; 
but on the banks of the Mingonzalez the rout became com- 
plete. The result is related by a fugitive from the field : — 

" The sentinels looked out from the watch-towers of Loxa, along 
the valley of the Xenil, which passes through the mountains. They 
looked, to behold the king returning in triumph, at the head of his 
shining host, laden with the spoil of the unbeliever. They looked, 
to behold the standard of their warlike idol, the fierce Ali Atar, 
borne by the chivalry of Loxa, ever foremost in the wars of the 
border. 

" In the evening of the 21st of April, they descried a single 
horseman, urging his faltering steed along the banks of the river. 
As he drew near, they perceived, by the flash of arms, that he was 
<i warrior ; and, on nearer approach, by the richness of his armor 
and the caparison of his steed, they knew him to be a warrior of 
rank. 

" He reached Loxa faint and aghast ; his Arabian courser covered 
with foam, and dust, and blood, panting and staggering with fatigue, 
and gashe 1 with wounds. Having brought his master in safety, he 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 403 

sank down and died, before the gate of the city. The soldiers at 
the gate gathered round the cavalier, as he stood, mute and melan- 
choly, by his expiring steed. They knew him to be the gallant Cidi 
Caleb, nephew of the chief alfaqui of the albaycen of Granada. 
When the people of Loxa beheld this noble cavalier thus alone, 
hao-oard and dejected, their hearts were filled with fearful forebod- 



ings. 

" ' Cavalier,' said they, ' how fares it with the king and army ? 
He cast his hand mournfully towards the land of the Christians. 
* There they lie ! ' exclaimed he ; ' the heavens have fallen upon 
them ! all are lost — all dead ! ' 

" Upon this there was a great cry of consternation among the 
people, and loud wailings of women; for the flower of the youth 
of Loxa were with the army. An old Moorish soldier, scarred in 
many a border battle, stood leaning on his lance by the gateway. 
' Where is Ali Atar ? ' demanded he eagerly. ' If he still live, the 
army cannot be lost.' 

" ' I saw his turban cleft by the Christian sword,' replied Cidi 
Caleb. ' His body is floating in the Xenil.' 

" When the soldier heard these words, he smote his breast and 
threw dust upon his head; for he was an old follower of Ali 
Atar." 

The unfortunate Boabdil was conducted a captive to Vaena, 
a frontier town among the mountains ; and the ruined towers 
of the old time-worn castle are still pointed out to the traveller 
in which he was held in honorable durance by the hardy 
Count de Cabra. Ferdinand at length liberated him, on 
stipulation of an ample tribute and vassalage, with military 
service to the Castilian crown. It was his policy to divide 
the Moors, by fomenting a civil war between the two rival 
kings ; and his foresight was justified by the result. The fac- 
tions of the father and the son broke forth again with re- 



\0\ CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

doubled fury, aud Moor was armed against Moor, instead of 
uniting against the common foe. 

Muley Aben Hassan became infirm through vexation as 
well as age, and blindness was added to his other calami- 
ties. Tie had, however, a brother, named Abdalla, but gener- 
ally called El Zagal, or the Valiant, younger, of course, than 
himself, yet well stricken in years, who was alike distin- 
guished for cool judgment and fiery courage, and for most 
of the other qualities which form an able general. This 
chief, whose martial deeds run through the present history, 
became the ruler of his brother's realm, and was soon after 
raised by acclamation to the throne, even before the ancient 
king's decease, which shortly followed, and not without sus- 
picion of foul play. The civil war, which had commenced 
between father and son, was kept up between uncle and 
nephew. The latter, though vacillating and irresolute, was 
capable of being suddenly aroused to prompt and vigorous 
measures. The voice of the multitude, changeful as the 
winds, fluctuated between El Chico and El Zagal, according 
as either was successful ; and in depicting the frequent, and 
almost ludicrous, vicissitudes of their power and popularity, 
the author has indulged a quiet vein of satire on the capri- 
cious mutability of public favor. 

The varied and striking scenes of daring foray and moun- 
tain maraud, of military pomp and courtly magnificence, 
which occur throughout the work, make selection difficult. 
The following extract shows the splendor of a Spanish camp, 
and the varied chivalry assembled from different Christian 
powers : 

" Great and glorious was the style with which the Catholic sov- 
ereigns opened another year's campaign of this eventful war. It was 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 405 

like commencing another act of a stately and heroic drama, where 
the curtain rises to the inspiring sound of martial melody, and the 
whole stage glitters with the array of warriors and the pomp of arms. 
The ancient city of Cordova was the place appointed by the sov- 
ereigns for the assemblage of the troops ; and, early in the spring 
of 1486, the fair valley of the Guadalquivir resounded with the 
shrill blast of trumpet and the impatient neighing of the war-horse. 
In this splendid era of Spanish chivalry, there was a rivalship among 
the nobles, who most should distinguish himself by the splendor of 
his appearance and the number and equipments of his feudal fol- 
lowers. . . . Sometimes they passed through the streets of Cordova 
at night, in cavalcade, with great numbers of lighted torches, the 
rays of which, falling upon polished armor, and nodding plumes, and 
silken scarfs^ and trappings of golden embroidery, filled all behold- 
ers with admiration. But it was not the chivalry of Spain alone 
which thronged the streets of Cordova. The fame of this war had 
spread throughout Christendom; it was considered a kind of cru- 
sade, and Catholic knights from all parts hastened to signalize them- 
selves in so holy a cause. There were several valiant chevaliers 
from France, among whom the most distinguished was Gaston du 
Leon, seneschal of Toulouse. With him came a gallant train, well 
armed and mounted, and decorated with rich surcoats and penaches 
of feathers. These cavaliers, it is said, eclipsed all others in the 
light festivities of the court. They were devoted to the fair ; but 
not after the solemn and passionate manner of the Spanish lovers ; 
they were gay, gallant, and joyous in their amours, and captivated 
by the vivacity of their attacks. They were at first held in light 
estimation by the grave and stately Spanish knights, until they made 
themselves to be respected by their wonderful prowess in the field. 
" The most conspicuous of the volunteers, however, who appeared 
in, Cordova on this occasion, was an English knight, of royal con- 
nection. This was the Lord Scales, Earl of Rivers, related to the 
Queen of England, wife of Henry VII. He had distinguished him- 
self, in the preceding year, at the battle of Bosworth Field, where 



10G CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

Ilcniy Tudor, then Earl of Richmond, overcame Richard III. That 
decisive battle having left the country at peace, the Earl of Rivers, 
retaining a passion for warlike scenes, repaired to the Castilian court, 
to keep his arms in exercise in a campaign against the Moors. He 
brought with him a hundred archers, all dexterous with the long- 
bow and the cloth-yard arrow; also two hundred yeomen, armed 
cap-a-pie, who fought with pike and battle-axe, — men robust of 
frame, and of prodigious strength. The worthy Padre Fray An- 
tonio Agapida describes this stranger knight and his followers with 
his accustomed accuracy and minuteness. ' This cavalier,' he ob- 
serves, ' was from the island of England, and brought with him a 
train of his vassals ; men who had been hardened in certain civil 
wars which had raged in their country. They were a comely race 
of men, but too fair and fresh for warriors, — not having the sunburnt, 
martial hue of our old Castilian soldiery. They were huge feeders, 
also, and deep carousers ; and could not accommodate themselves 
to the sober diet of our troops, but must fain eat and drink after 
the manner of their own country. They were often noisy and 
unruly, also, in their wassail ; and their quarter of the camp was 
prone to be a scene of loud revel and sudden brawl. They were 
withal of great pride ; yet it was not like our inflammable Spanish 
pride ; they stood not much upon the pundonor and high punctilio, 
and rarely drew the stiletto in their disputes ; but their pride was 
silent and contumelious. Though from a remote and somewhat 
barbarous island, they yet believed themselves the most perfect men 
upon earth ; and magnified their chieftain, the Lord Scales, beyond 
the greatest of our grandees. With all this, it must be said of them 
that they were marvellous good men in the field, dexterous archers, 
and powerful with the battle-axe. In their great pride and self-will, 
they always sought to press in the advance, and take the post of dan- 
ger, trying to outvie our Spanish chivalry. They did not rush forward 
fiercely, or make a brilliant onset, like the Moorish and Spanish 
troops, but they went into the fight deliberately, and persisted obsti- 
nately, and were slow to find out when they were beaten. Withal, 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 407 

they were much esteemed, yet little liked, by our soldiery, who con- 
sidered them stanch companions in the field, yet coveted but little 
fellowship with them in the camp. Their commander, the Lord 
Scales, was an accomplished cavalier, of gracious and noble pres- 
ence, and fair speech. It was a marvel to see so much courtesy in 
a knight brought up so far from our Castilian court. He was much 
honored by the king and queen, and found great favor with the fair 
dames about the court ; who, indeed, are rather prone to be pleased 
with foreign cavaliers. He went always in costly state, attended 
by pages and esquires, and accompanied by noble young cavaliers 
of his country, who had enrolled themselves under his banner, to 
learn the gentle exercise of arms. In all pageants and festivals, 
the eyes of the populace were attracted by the singular bearing and 
rich array of the English earl and his train, who prided themselves 
in always appearing in the garb and manner of their country ; and 
were, indeed, something very magnificent, delectable, and strange 
to behold.' " 

Ferdinand led this gallant army to besiege Loxa, a power- 
ful city on the Moorish frontier, before which he had formerly 
been foiled. The assault was made in open day, by a de- 
tachment which had been thrown in the advance, and which 
was bravely and fiercely met and repelled by the Moors. 

" At this critical juncture, King Ferdinand emerged from the 
mountains with the main body of the army, and advanced to an 
eminence commanding a full view of the field of action. By his 
side was the noble English cavalier, the Earl of Rivers. This was 
the first time he had witnessed a scene of Moorish warfare. He 
looked with eager interest at the chance-medley fight before him, — 
the wild career of cavalry, the irregular and tumultuous rush of 
infantry, and Christian helm and Moorish turban intermingling in 
deadly struggle. His high blood mounted at the sight ; and his very 
soul was stirred within him by the confused war-cries, the clangor 
of drums and trumpets, and the reports of arquebuses, that came 



108 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

echoing up the mountains. Seeing the king was sending a rein- 
forcement to the field, he entreated permission to mingle in the affray, 
and fight according to the fashion of his country. His request being 
granted, he alighted from his steed. He was merely armed en 
bianco; that is to say, with morion, backpiece, and breastplate; 
his sword was girded by his side, and in his hand he wielded a pow- 
erful battle-axe. He was followed by a body of his yeomen, armed 
in like manner, and by a band of archers, with bows made of the 
tough English yew-tree. The earl turned to his troops, and ad- 
dressed them briefly and bluntly, according to the manner of his 
country. ' Remember, my merry men all,' said he, ' the eyes of 
strangers are upon you; you are in a foreign land, fighting for the 
glory of God and the honor of merry old England ! ' A loud shout 
was the reply. The earl waved his battle-axe over his head. ' St. 
George for England ! ' cried he ; and, to the inspiring sound of this 
old English war-cry, he and his followers rushed down to the battle, 
with manly and courageous hearts. 

" The Moors were confounded by the fury of these assaults, and 
gradually fell back upon the bridge ; the Christians followed up their 
advantage, and drove them over it tumultuously. The Moors re- 
treated into the suburbs, and Lord Rivers and his troops entered with 
them pell-mell, fighting in the streets and in the houses. King Fer- 
dinand came up to the scene of action with his royal guard, and the 
infidels were all driven within the city walls. Thus were the suburbs 
gained by the hardihood of the English lord, without such an event 
having been premeditated." 

Various striking events marked the progress of the war, — 
ingenious and desperate manoeuvres on the part of El Zagal, 
and persevering success in the well-judged policy of Ferdinand. 
A spell of ill fortune seemed to surround the old Moorish king 
ever since the suspicious death of his brother and predecessor, 
Muley Aben Hassan, which was surmised to have been effected 
through his connivance ; and his popularity sunk with his ver- 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 409 

satile subjects. The Spaniards at length laid siege to the 
powerful city of Baza, the key to all the remaining possessions 
of El Zagal. The peril of the Moorish kingdom of Granada 
resounded now throughout the East. The Grand Turk, Bajazet 
TL, and his deadly foe the Grand Soldan of Egypt, or of Baby- 
lon, as he is termed by the old chroniclers, suspended their 
bloody feuds to check this ruinous war. A singular embassy 
from the latter of these potentates now entered the Spanish 
camp. 

" While the holy Christian army was beleaguering the infidel city 
of Baza, there rode into the camp one day two reverend friars of 
the order of Saint Francis. One was of portly person and authori- 
tative air. He bestrode a goodly steed, well conditioned and well 
caparisoned ; while his companion rode behind him upon a humble 
hack, poorly accoutred, and, as he rode, he scarcely raised his eyes 
from the ground, but maintained a meek and lowly air. The arrival 
of two friars in the camp was not a matter of much note ; for in these 
holy wars the church militant continually mingled in the affray, and 
helmet and cowl were always seen together ; but it was soon dis- 
covered that these worthy saints errant were from a far country, and 
on a mission of great import. They were, in truth, just arrived from 
the Holy Land, being two of the saintly men who kept vigil over the 
sepulchre of our blessed Lord at Jerusalem. He of the tall and 
portly form and commanding presence, was Fray Antonio Millan, 
prior of the Franciscan convent in the Holy City. He had a full and 
florid countenance, a sonorous voice, and was round, and swelling, 
and copious, in his periods, like one accustomed to harangue, and to 
be listened to with deference. His companion was small and spare 
ir form, pale of visage, and soft, and silken, and almost whispering, 
in speech. ' He had a humble and lowly way,' says Agapida ; ' ever- 
more bowing the head, as became one of his calling. Yet he was 
one of the most active, zealous, and effective brothers of the convent ; 
and, when he raised his small black eye from the earth, there was 



410 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

1 keen glance out of the corner, which showed that, though harm* 
less as a dove, he was nevertheless as wise as a serpent.' These 
holy men had come, on a momentous embassy, from the Grand Soldan 
of Egypt, who, as head of the whole Moslem sect, considered him- 
self bound to preserve the kingdom of Granada from the grasp of 
unbelievers. He dispatched, therefore, these two holy friars, with 
letters to the Castilian sovereigns, insisting that they should desist from 
tins war, and reinstate the Moors of Granada in the territory of which 
the)' had been dispossessed ; otherwise, he threatened to put to death 
all the Christians beneath his sway, to demolish their convents and 
temples, and to destroy the holy sepulchre." 

It may not be uninteresting to remark that Christopher 
Columbus, in the course of his tedious solicitation to the Span- 
ish court, was present at this siege ; and it is surmised that, in 
conversations with these diplomatic monks, he was first inspired 
with that zeal for the recovery of the holy sepulchre which, 
throughout the remainder of his life, continued to animate his 
fervent and enthusiastic spirit, and beguile him into magnifi- 
cent schemes and speculations. The ambassadors of the Sol- 
dan, meantime, could produce no change in the resolution of 
Ferdinand. Baza yielded after more than six months' arduous 
siege, and was followed by the surrender of most of the for- 
tresses of the Alpuxarra Mountains ; and at length the fiery 
El Zagal, tamed by misfortunes and abandoned by his subjects, 
surrendered his crown to the Christian sovereigns for a stipu- 
lated revenue or productive domain. 

Boabdil el Chico remained the sole and unrivalled sovereign 
of Granada, the vassal of the Christian sovereigns, whose assist- 
ance had supported him in his wars against his uncle. But he 
was now to prove the hollow-hearted friendship of the politic 
Ferdinand. Pretences were easily found where a quarrel was 
already predetermined, and he was presently required to sur- 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 41 i 

render the city and crown of Granada. A ravage of the Vega 
enforced the demand, and the Spanish armies laid siege to 
the metropolis. Ferdinand had fulfilled his menace ; he had 
picked out the seeds of the pomegranate. Every town and 
fortress had successively fallen into his hand, and the city of 
Granada stood alone. He led his desolating armies over this 
paradise of a country, and left scarcely a living animal or a 
green blade on the face of the land, — and Granada, the queen 
of gardens, remained a desert. The history closes with the 
last scene of this eventful contest, — the surrender of the Moor- 
ish capital : — 

" Having surrendered the last symbol of power, the unfortunate 
Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras, that he might not 
behold the entrance of the Christians into his capital. His devoted 
band of cavaliers followed him in gloomy silence ; but heavy sighs 
burst from their bosoms, as shouts of joy and strains of triumphant 
music were borne on the breeze from the victorious army. Having 
rejoined his family, Boabdil set forward with a heavy heart for his 
allotted residence, in the valley of Porchena. At two leagues dis- 
tance, the cavalcade, winding into the skirts of the Alpuxarras, as- 
cended an eminence commanding the last view of Granada. As they 
arrived at this spot, the Moors paused involuntarily to take a farewell 
gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more would shut from 
their sight forever. Never had it appeared so lovely in their eyes. 
The sunshine, so bright in that transparent climate, lighted up each 
tower and minaret, and rested gloriously upon the crowning battle- 
ments of the Alhambra ; while the Vega spread its enamelled bosom 
of verdure below, glistening with the silver windings of the Xenil. 
The Moorish cavaliers gazed with a silent agony of tenderness and 
grief upon that delicious abode, the scene of their loves and pleasures. 
While they yet looked, a light cloud of smoke burst forth from the 
L'itadel ; and, presently, a peal of artillery, faintly heard, told that the 
city was taken possession of, and the throne of the Moslem kings was 



412 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

lost forever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfortunes and 
overcharged with grief, could no longer contain itself. ' Allah achbar ! 
God is great ! " said he ; but the words of resignation died upon his 
lips, and he burst into a flood of tears. His mother, the intrepid Sul- 
tana Ayxa la Horra, was indignant at his weakness. ' You do well,' 
said she, ' to weep like a woman for what you failed to defend like 
a man!' The vizier, Aben Comixa, endeavored to console his royal 
master. ' Consider, sire,' said he, ' that the most signal misfortunes 
often render men as renowned as the most prosperous achievements, 
provided they sustain them with magnanimity.' The unhappy mon- 
arch, however, was not to be consoled. His tears continued to flow. 
1 Allah achbar ! ' exclaimed he, ' when did misfortunes ever equal 
mine ! ' From this circumstance, the hill, which is not far from Padul, 
took the name of Feg Allah Achbar ; but the point of view command- 
ing the last prospect of Granada is known among Spaniards by the 
name of el ultimo suspiro del Moro, or ' the last sigh of the Moor.' " 

Here ends the " Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada," for 
here the author lets fall the curtain^ We. shall, however, ex- 
tend our view a little further. The rejoicings of the Spanish 
sovereigns were echoed at Rome, and throughout Christendom. 
The venerable chronicler, Pedro Abarca, assures us that King 
Henry VII. of England celebrated the conquest by a grand 
procession to St. Paul's, where the Chancellor pronounced an 
eloquent eulogy on King Ferdinand, declaring him not only 
a glorious captain and conqueror, but also entitled to a seat 
among the Apostles.* 

The pious and politic monarch governed his new kingdom 
with more righteousness than mercy. The Moors were at first 
a little restive under the yoke ; there were several tumults in 
the city, and a quantity of arms were discovered in a secret 
2ave. Many of the offenders were tried, condemned, and put 

* Abarca, Anales de Aragon, p. 30. 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 113 

to death, some being quartered, others cut in pieces ; and the 
whole mass of infidel inhabitants was well sifted, and purged 
of upwards of forty thousand delinquents. This system of 
wholesome purgation was zealously continued by Fray Fran- 
cisco (afterwards Cardinal) Ximenes, who, seconded by Fer- 
nando de Talavera, Archbishop of Granada, and clothed in 
the terrific power of the Inquisition, undertook the conversion 
of the Moors. We forbear to detail the various modes — 
sometimes by blandishment, sometimes by rigor, sometimes ex- 
horting, sometimes entreating, sometimes hanging, sometimes 
burning — by which the hard hearts of the infidels were sub- 
dued, and above fifty thousand coaxed, teased, and terrified 
into baptism. 

One act of Ximenes has been the subject of particular regret. 
The Moors had cultivated the sciences while they lay buried 
in Europe, and were renowned for the value of their literature. 
Ximenes, in his bigoted zeal to destroy the Koran, extended 
his devastation to the indiscriminate destruction of their works, 
and burnt five thousand manuscripts on various subjects, some 
of them very splendid copies, and others of great intrinsic 
worth, sparing a very few, which treated chiefly of medicine. 
Here we shall pause, and not pursue the subject to the further 
oppression and persecution, and final expulsion, of these un- 
happy people ; the latter of which events is one of the most 
impolitic and atrocious recorded in the pages of history. 

Centuries have elapsed since the time of this chivalrous and 
romantic struggle, yet the monuments of it still remain, and 
the principal facts still linger in the popular traditions and 
legendary ballads with which the country abounds. The like- 
nesses of Ferdinand and Isabella are multiplied, in every mode, 
by painting and sculpture, in the churches, and convents, and 
18 



41 I CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

palaces of Granada. Their ashes rest in sepulchral magnifi- 
cence in the royal chapel of the cathedral, where their effigies 
in alabaster lie side by side before a splendid altar, decorated 
in relief with the story of their triumph. The anniversary of 
the surrender of the capital is still kept up by fetes, and cere- 
monies, and public rejoicings. The standard of Ferdinand 
and Isabella is again unfurled and waved to the sound of 
trumpets. The populace are admitted to rove all day about 
the halls and courts of the Alhambra, and to dance on its 
terraces; the ancient alarm-bell resounds at morn, at noon, 
and at nightfall ; great emulation prevails among the damsels 
to ring a peal, — it is a sign they will be married in the course 
of the opening year. But this commemoration is not confined 
to Granada alone. Every town and village of the mountains 
on the Yega has the anniversary of its deliverance from Moor- 
ish thraldom ; when ancient armor, and Spanish and Moorish 
dresses, and unwieldly arquebuses, from the time of the Con- 
quest, are brought forth from their repositories — grotesque 
processions are made — and sham battles, celebrated by peas- 
ants, arrayed as Christians and Moors, in which the latter 
are sure to be signally defeated, and sometimes, in the ardor 
and illusion of the moment, soundly rib-roasted. 

In traversing the mountains and valleys of the ancient king- 
dom, the traveller may trace with wonderful distinctness the 
scenes of the principal events of the war. The muleteer, as 
he lolls on his pack-saddle, smoking his cigar or chanting his 
popular romance, pauses to point out some wild, rocky pass, 
famous for the bloody strife of infidel and Christian, or some 
Moorish fortress butting above the road, or some solitary 
watch-tower on the heights, connected with the old story of the 
Conquest. Gibralfaro, the warlike hold of Hamet el Zegri, 



CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 415 

formidable even in its ruins, still frowns down from its rocky 
height upon the streets of Malaga. Loxa, Alhama, Zahara, 
Ron da, Guadix, Baza, have all their Moorish ruins, rendered 
classic by song and story. The " Last sigh of the Moor " still 
lingers about the height of Padul ; the traveller pauses on the 
arid and thirsty summit of the hill, commanding a view over 
the varied bosom of the Vega, to the distant towers of Gra- 
nada. A humble cabin is erected by the wayside, where he 
may obtain water to slake his thirst, and the very rock is 
pointed out whence the unfortunate Boabdil took his last look, 
and breathed the last farewell, to his beloved Alhambra. 

Every part of Granada itself retains some memorial of the 
taste and elegance, the valor and voluptuousness, of the Moors, 
or some memento of the strife that sealed their downfall. The 
fountains which gush on every side are fed by the aqueducts 
once formed by Moslem hands ; the Yega is still embroidered 
by the gardens they planted, where the remains of their ingen- 
ious irrigation spread the verdure and freshness of a northern 
climate under the cloudless azure of a southern sky. But the 
pavilions that adorned these gardens — and where, if romances 
speak true, the Moslem heroes solaced themselves with the 
loves of their Zaras, their Zaidas, and their Zelindas — have 
long since disappeared. The orange, the citron, the fig, the vine, 
the pomegranate, the aloe, and the myrtle, shroud and over- 
whelm with Oriental vegetation the crumbling ruins of towers 
and battlements. The Vivarrambla, once the scene of chival- 
ric pomp and splendid tourney, is degraded to a market-place ; 
the Gate of Elvira, from whence so many a shining array of 
warriors passed forth to forage the land of the Christians, still 
exists, but neglected and dismantled, and tottering to its fall. 
The Alhambra rises from amidst its groves, the tomb of its 



116 CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 

former glory. The fountains still play in its marble halls, and 
the nightingale sings among the roses of its gardens ; but the 
halls are waste and solitary ; the owl hoots from its battlements, 
the hawk builds in its warrior towers, and bats flit about its 
royal chambers. Still the fountain is pointed out where the 
gallant Abencerrages were put to death ; the mirador, where 
Morayma sat and wept the departure of Boabdil, and watched 
for his return ; and the broken gateway, from whence the un- 
fortunate monarch issued forth to surrender his fortress and 
his kingdom ; and which, at his request, was closed up, never to 
be entered by mortal footstep. At the time when the French 
abandoned this fortress, after its temporary occupation a few 
years since, the tower of the gateway was blown up ; the walls 
were rent and shattered by the explosion, and the folding-doors 
hurled into the garden of the convent of Los Martiros. The 
portal, however, was closed up with stones, by persons who 
were ignorant of the tradition connected with it, and thus the 
last request of poor Boabdil continued unwittingly to be per- 
formed. Tn fact, the story of the gateway, though recorded in 
ancient chronicle, has faded from general recollection, and is 
only known to two or three ancient inhabitants of the Alham- 
bra, who inherit it, with other local traditions, from their an- 
cestors 



LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "THE KNICKER 
BOCKER," 

ON COMMENCING HIS MONTHLY CONTRIBUTIONS. 

Sir : I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is 
subject to a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned 
by the vast accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the 
brain. Hence he is apt to become narrative and admonitory, 
that is to say, fond of telling long stories, and of doling out ad- 
vice, to the small profit and great annoyance of his friends. 
As I have a great horror of becoming the oracle, or, more 
technically speaking, the " bore," of the domestic circle, and 
would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon 
the world at large, I have always sought to ease off this sur- 
charge of the intellect by means of my pen, and hence have 
inflicted divers gossiping volumes upon the patience of the 
public. I am tired, however, of writing volumes ; they do not 
afford exactly the relief I require ; there is too much prepara- 
tion, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming be- 
fore the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious 
for anything that requires labor or display. I have thought, 
therefore, of securing to myself a snug corner in some period- 
ical work, where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my el- 
bow-chair, and chat sociably with the public, as with an old 
friend, on any chance subject that might pop into my brain. 



418 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF " THE KNICKERBOCKER," 

In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excel* 
lent periodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was 
struck by the title of your work, — " The Knickerbocker." 
My heart leaped at the sight. 

Diedrich Knickerbocker, sir, was one of my earliest and 
most valued friends, and the recollection of him is associated 
with some of the pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To 
explain this, and to show how I came into possession of sundry 
of his posthumous works, which I have from time to time given 
to the world, permit me to relate a few particulars of our early 
intercourse. I give them with the more confidence, as I know 
the interest you take in that departed worthy, wdiose name and 
effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will be 
found important to the better understanding and relishing di- 
vers communications I may have to make to you. 

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, — for 
such I may venture to call him, now that the lapse of some 
thirty years has shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, 
and the popular voice has elevated him to the rank of the clas- 
sic historians of yore, — my first acquaintance with him was 
formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far from the wizard 
region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course of 
his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials 
for his immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking 
the archives of one of the most ancient and historical mansions 
in the country. It was a lowly edifice, built in the time of the 
Dutch dynasty, and stood on a green bank, overshadowed by 
trees, from which it peeped forth upon the Great Tappan Zee, 
so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright pure 
spring welled up at the foot of the green bank ; a wild brook 
came babbling down a neighboring ravine, and threw itself into 



ON COMMENCING HIS MONTHLY CONTRIBUTIONS. 419 

a little woody cove, in front of the mansion. It was indeed as 
quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man could require 
m which to take refuge from the cares and troubles of the 
world ; and as such, it had been chosen in old times by Wol- 
fert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the renowned Peter 
S tuy vesant. 

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried 
life throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being 
one of those unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at 
variance, and who are kept in a continual fume and fret by the 
wickedness of mankind. At the time of the subjugation of the 
province by the English, he retired hither in high dudgeon ; 
with the bitter determination to bury himself from the world, 
and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his 
days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his 
door the favorite Dutch motto, " Lust in Rust," (pleasure in 
repose.) The mansion was thence called " Wolfert's Rust," — 
Wolfe rt's Rest ; but in process of time, the name was vitiated 
into Wolfert's Roost probably from its quaint cock-loft look, or 
from its having a weathercock perched on every gable. This 
name it continued to bear long after the unlucky Wolfert was 
driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the tongue 
of a termagant wife ; for it passed into a proverb through the 
neighborhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that 
the cock of the roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the 
country. 

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed 
through many changes and trials, which it may be my lot here- 
after to notice. At the time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knick- 
erbocker, it was in possession of the gallant family of the Van 
Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously in his writings. 



420 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF " TIIE KNICKERBOCKER/' 

What appears to have given it peculiar value in his eyes, was 
the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded up, 
like buried gold ; for it is said that TTolfert Acker, when he 
retreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of 
the records and journals of the province, pertaining to the 
Dutch dynasty ; swearing that they should never fall into the 
hands of the English. These, like the lost* books of Livy, had 
baffled the research of former historians ; but these did I find 
the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering. He was 
already a sage in years and experience, I but an idle stripling ; 
yet he did not despise my youth and ignorance, but took me 
kindly by the hand, and led me gently into those paths of local 
and traditional lore which he was so fond of exploring. I sat 
with him in his little chamber at the Roost, and watched the 
antiquarian patience and perseverance with which he deci- 
phered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than Hercula- 
nean manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of 
the green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the wor- 
thies of the olden time, — the paladins of New Amsterdam. I 
accompanied him in his legendary researches about Tarrytown 
and Sing-Sing, and explored with him the spell-bound recesses 
of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of his conferences 
with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from whom 
he derived many of those marvellous facts not laid down in 
books or records, and which give such superior value and au- 
thenticity to his history over all others that have been written 
concerning the New Netherlands. 

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite 
theme ; I may recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the inti- 
macy thus formed continued for a considerable time ; and in 
company with the worthy Diedrich, I visited many of the 



ON COMMENCING HIS MONTHLY CONTRIBUTIONS. 421 

places celebrated by his pen. The currents of our lives at 
length diverged. He remained at home to complete his mighty 
work, while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about the world. 
Many, many years elapsed before I returned to the parent soil. 
In the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands 
had been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to 
renown. His native city, that city in which he so much de- 
lighted, had decreed all manner of costly honors to his mem- 
ory. I found his effigy imprinted upon new-year cakes, and 
devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins ; a great oyster- 
house bore the name of " Knickerbocker Hall " ; and I nar- 
rowly escaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knicker- 
bocker omnibus ! 

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved 
such greatness, I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold 
pleasure, and sought to revisit the scenes we had trodden to- 
gether. The most important of these w r as the mansion of the 
Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate Wolfert. Time, 
which changes all things, is but slow in its operations upon a 
Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quiet little 
edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Dieclrich. 
There stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had 
occupied; the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he 
had pored over the chronicles of the Manhattoes ; there was 
the old wooden chest, with the archives left by Wolfert Acker, 
many of which, however, had been fired off as wadding from 
the long duck-gun of the Van Tassels. The scene around the 
mansion was still the same ; the green bank : the spring beside 
which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the histo- 
rian ; the wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and 
the overshadowing locust-trees, half shutting out the prospect 
of the Great Tappan Zee. 

18* 



i22 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "THE KNICKERBOCKER," 

As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at 
the recollection of my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed 
the mansion which he had inhabited, and which was fast 
mouldering to decay. The thought struck me to arrest the 
desolating hand of Time ; to rescue the historic pile from 
utter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wander- 
ings, — a quiet home, where I might enjoy "lust in rust " for 
the remainder of my days. Tt is true, the fate of the unlucky 
TTolfert passed across my mind ; but I consoled myself with 
the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I had no ter- 
magant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me. 

I have become possessor of the Roost ! I have repaired 
and renovated it with religious care, in the genuine Dutch 
style, and have adorned and illustrated it with sundry relics 
of the glorious days of the New JNethelands. A venerable 
weathercock, of portly Dutch dimensions, which once battled 
with the wind on the top of the Staclt-House of New Amster- 
dam, in the time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects it crest on 
the gable end of my edifice ; a gilded horse, in full gallop, 
once the weathercock of the great Vander Heyden Palace 
of Albany, now glitters in the sunshine, and veers with every 
breeze, on the peaked turret over my portal; my sanctum 
sanctorum is the chamber once honored by the illustrious 
Diedrich, and it is from his elbow-chair, and his identical 
old Dutch writing-desk, that I pen this rambling epistle. 

Here then have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recol- 
lections of earlier days, and the mementos of the historian 
of the jNIanhattoes, with that glorious river before me, which 
flows with such majesty through his works, and which has 
ever been to me a river of delight. 

I thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson ! I 



ON COMMENCING HIS MONTHLY CONTRIBUTIONS. A'ZO 

think it an invaluable advantage to be born and brought 
up in the neighborhood of some grand and noble object in 
Nature, — a river, a lake, or a mountain. We make a friend- 
ship with it, — we in a manner ally ourselves to it for life. It 
remains an object of our pride and affections, a rallying point, 
to call us home again after all our wanderings. " The things 
which we have learned in our childhood," says an old writer, 
"grow up with our souls, and unite themselves to it." So 
it; is with the scenes among which we have passed our early 
days; they influence the whole course of our thoughts and 
feelings ; and I fancy I can trace much of what is good and 
pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my early 
companionship with this glorious river. In the warmth of 
my youthful enthusiasm, I used to clothe it with moral attri- 
butes, and almost to give it a soul. I admired its frank, bold, 
honest character ; its noble sincerity and perfect truth. Here 
was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous sand- 
bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, 
and bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its 
waves. I gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow ; 
ever straight forward. Once indeed, it turns aside for a 
moment, forced from its course by opposing mountains ; but 
it struggles bravely through them, and immediately resumes 
its straightforward march. Behold, thought I, an emblem 
of a good man's course through life ; ever simple, open, and 
direct ; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he de- 
viate into error, it is but momentary ; he soon recovers his 
onward and honorable career, and continues it to the end 
of his pilgrimage. 

Excuse this rhapsody into which I have been betrayed 
by a revival of early feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, 



424 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "THE KNICKERBOCKER." 

my first and last love; and after all my wanderings, and seem- 
ing infidelities, I return to it with a heartfelt preference over 
all the other rivers in the world. I seem to catch new life, 
as I bathe in its ample billows, and inhale the pure breezes 
of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past that 
once spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer 
picture an Arcadia in every green valley, nor a fairy land 
among the distant mountains, nor a peerless beauty in every 
villa gleaming among the trees ; but, though the illusions 
of youth have faded from the landscape, the recollections 
of departed years and departed pleasures shed over it the 
mellow charm of evening sunshine. 

Permit me then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your 
work, to hold occasional discourse from my retreat with the 
busy world I have abandoned. I have much to say about 
what I have seen, heard, felt, and thought, through the course 
of a varied and rambling life, and some lucubrations that 
have long been encumbering my portfolio ; together with 
divers reminiscences of the venerable historian of the New 
Netherlands, that may not be unacceptable to those who have 
taken an interest in his writings, and are desirous of any- 
thing that may cast a light back upon our early history. Let 
your readers rest assured of one thing, that, though retired 
from the world, I am not . disgusted with it ; and that if, in 
my communings with it, I do not prove very wise, I trust I 
shall at least prove very good-natured. 
Which is all at present, from 

Yours, etc., 

Geoffrey Crayon. 



fyx<Aju o ItsX^tK^ W 



s3 pje/\, Cnr j 



M*3 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 

Having pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my 
days, in the neighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to 
give some few particulars concerning that spellbound region ; 
especially as it has risen to historic importance under the pen 
of my revered friend and master, the sage historian of the New 
Netherlands. Besides, I find the very existence of the place 
has been held in question by many, who, judging from its odd 
name, and from the odd stories current among the vulgar con- 
cerning it, have rashly deemed the whole to be a fanciful 
creation, like the Lubber Land of mariners. I must confess 
there is some apparent cause for doubt, in consequence of the 
coloring given by the worthy Diedrich to his descriptions of 
the Hollow, who, in this instance, has departed a little from 
his usually sober if not severe style ; beguiled, very probably, 
by his predilection for the haunts of his youth, and by a certain 
lurking taint of romance, whenever anything connected with 
the Dutch was to be described. I shall endeavor to make up 
for this amiable error, on the part of my venerable and ven- 
erated friend, by presenting the reader with a more precise and 
statistical account of the Hollow ; though I am not sure that I 
shall not be prone to lapse, in the end, into the very error I am 
speaking of, so potent is the witchery of the theme. 

I believe it was the very peculiarity of its name, and the 



426 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

idea of something mystic and dreamy connected with it, that 
first led me, in my boyish ramblings, into Sleepy Hollow. The 
character of the valley seemed to answer to the name : the 
slumber of past ages apparently reigned over it ; it had not 
awakened to the stir of improvement, which had put all the 
rest of the world in a bustle. Here reigned good old long- 
forgotten fashions : the men were in homespun garbs, evidently 
the product of their own farms, and the manufacture of their 
own wives ; the women were in primitive short gowns and pet- 
ticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnets of Holland origin 
The lower part of the valley was cut up into small farms : each 
consisting of a little meadow and cornfield ; an orchard of 
sprawling, gnarled apple-trees ; and a garden, where the rose, 
the marigold, and the hollyhock were permitted to skirt the 
domains of the capacious cabbage, the aspiring pea, and 
the portly pumpkin. Each had its prolific little mansion, 
teeming with children : with, an old hat nailed against the 
wall for the house-keeping wren; a motherly hen, under a 
coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a brood 
of vagrant chickens ; a cool stone well, with the moss-covered 
bucket suspended to the long balancing-pole, according to 
the antediluvian idea of hydraulics; and its spinning-wheel 
humming within doors, the patriarchal music of home manu- 
facture. 

The Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which 
had existed there from the earliest times, and which, by fre- 
quent intermarriage, had become so interwoven as to make 2 
kind of natural commonwealth. As the families had grown 
larger, the farms had grown smaller, every new generation 
requiring a new subdivision, and few thinking of swarming 
from the native hive. In this way that happy golden mean 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 427 

had been produced, so much extolled by the poets, in which 
there was no gold and very little silver. One thing which 
doubtless contributed to keep up this amiable mean, was a gen- 
eral repugnance to sordid labor. The sage inhabitants of 
Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the only 
book they studied, that labor was originally inflicted upon 
man as a punishment of sin ; they regarded it, therefore, with 
pious abhorrence, and never humiliated themselves to it but 
in cases of extremity. There seemed, in fact, to be a league 
and covenant against it, throughout the Hollow, as against 
a common enemy. Was any one compelled by dire necessity 
to repair his house, mend his fences, build a barn, or get in a 
harvest, he considered it a great evil, that entitled him to call 
in the assistance of his friends. He accordingly proclaimed 
a " bee," or rustic gathering ; whereupon all his neighbors hur- 
ried to his aid, like faithful allies ; attacked the task with the 
desperate energy of lazy men, eager to overcome a job ; and 
when it was accomplished, fell to eating and drinking, fiddling 
and dancing, for very joy that so great an amount of labor 
had been vanquished, with so little sweating of the brow. 

Yet let it not be supposed that this worthy community 
was without its periods of arduous activity. Let but a flock 
of wild pigeons fly across the valley, and all Sleepy Hollow 
was wide awake in an instant. The pigeon season had ar- 
rived ! Every gun and net was forthwith in requisition. The 
flail was thrown down on the barn-floor ; the spade rusted in 
the garden ; the plough stood idle in the furrow ; every one 
was to the hill-side and stubble-field at daybreak, to shoot or 
entrap the pigeons, in their periodical migrations. 

So, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were 
ascending the Hudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were 



428 SLEEPY HOLLOW 

to be seen launched in boats upon the river ; setting great 
stakes, and stretching their nets, like gigantic spider-webs, half 
across the stream, to the great annoyance of navigators. Such 
are the wise provisions of Nature, by which she equalizes rural 
affairs. A laggard at the plough is often extremely industrious 
with the fowling-piece and fishing-net ; and whenever a man 
is an indifferent farmer, he is apt to be a first-rate spoilsman. 
For catching shad and wild pigeons, there were none through- 
out the country to compare with the lads of Sleepy Hollow. 

As I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name 
that first beguiled me, in the holiday rovings of boyhood, into 
this sequestered region. I shunned, however, the populous 
parts of the Hollow, and sought its retired haunts, far in the 
foldings of the hills, where the Pocantico "winds its wizard 
stream," sometimes silently and darkly, through solemn wood- 
lands ; sometimes sparkling between grassy borders, in fresh 
green meadows ; sometimes stealing along the feet of ragged 
heights, under the balancing sprays of beech and chestnut 
trees. A thousand crystal springs, with which this neighbor- 
hood abounds, sent down from the hill-sides their whimpering 
rills, as if to pay tribute to the Pocantico. In this stream I 
first essayed my unskilful hand at angling. I loved to loiter 
along it, with rod in hand, watching my float as it whirled 
amid the eddies, or drifted into dark holes, under twisted 
roots and sunken logs, where the largest fish are apt to lurk. 
I delighted to follow it into the brown recesses of the woods ; 
to throw by my fishing-gear and sit upon rocks beneath 
towering oaks and clambering grape-vines ; bathe my feet in 
the cool current, and listen to the summer breeze playing 
among the tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all Nature 
around me with ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 429 

beings I had read of in poetry and fable. Here it was I 
gave full scope to my incipient habit of day-dreaming, and 
to a certain propensity to weave up and tint sober realities 
with my own whims and imaginings, which has sometimes 
made life a little too much like an Arabian tale to me, and this 
" working-day world " rather like a region of romance. 

The great gathering place of Sleepy Hollow, in those days, 
was the church. It stood outside of the Hollow, near the 
great highway, on a green bank, shaded by trees, with the 
Pocantico sweeping round it and emptying itself into a spa- 
cious mill-pond. At that time the Sleepy Hollow church was 
the only place of worship for a wide neighborhood. It was 
a venerable edifice, partly of stone and partly of brick, — the 
latter having been brought from Holland, in the early days 
of the Province, before the arts in the New Netherlands could 
aspire to such a fabrication. On a stone above the porch 
were inscribed the names of the founders, Frederick Filipsen, 
— a mighty man of the olden time, who got the better of the 
native savages, subdued a great tract of country by dint of 
trinkets, tobacco, and aqua vitce, and established his seat of 
power at Yonkers, — and his wife, Katrina Van Courtlandt, 
of the no less heroic line of the Van Courtlandts of Croton, 
who in like manner subdued and occupied a great part of the 
Highlands. 

The capacious pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding-board, 
were likewise early importations from Holland; as also the 
communion-table, of massive form and curious fabric. The 
same might be said of a weathercock, perched on top of 
the belfry, and which was considered orthodox in all windy 
matters, until a small pragmatical rival was set up on the other 
end of the church, above the chancel. This latter bore, and 



4-10 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

still bears, the initials of Frederick Filipsen, and assumed 
great airs in consequence. The usual contradiction ensued 
that always exists among church weathercocks, which can 
never be brought to agree as to the point from which the 
wind blows, having doubtless acquired, from their position, 
the Christian propensity to schism and controversy. 

Behind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, w T as its 
capacious burying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of 
this rural neighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest 
sculpture ; on which were inscribed, in Dutch, the names and 
virtues of many of the first settlers, with their portraitures 
curiously carved in similitude of cherubs. Long rows of grave- 
stones, side by side, of similar names but various dates, showed 
that generation after generation of the same families had fol- 
lowed each other, and been garnered together in this last 
gathering place of kindred. 

Let me speak of this quiet graveyard with all due reverence, 
for I owe it amends for the heedlessness of my boyish days. I 
blush to acknowledge the thoughtless frolic with which, in 
company with other whipsters, I have sported within its sa- 
cred bounds, during the intervals of worship, — chasing butter- 
flies, plucking wild flowers, or vying with each other who 
could leap over the tallest tombstones, — until checked by the 
stern voice of the sexton. 

The congregation was, in those days, of a really rural 
character. City fashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, 
by the country people of the neighborhood. Steamboats 
had not as yet confounded town with country. A weekly 
market-boat from Tarry town, the Farmers Daughter, navi- 
gated by the worthy Gabriel Requa, was the only communi- 
cation between all these parts and the metropolis. A rustic 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 431 

belle in those days considered a visit to the city in much 
the same light as one of our modern fashionable ladies re- 
gards a visit to Europe, — an event that may possibly take 
place once in the course of a lifetime, but to be hoped for 
rather than expected. Hence the array of the congrega- 
tion was chiefly after the primitive fashions existing in Sleepy 
Hollow ; or if, by chance, there was a departure from the 
Dutch sun-bonnet, or the apparition of a bright gown of 
flowered calico, it caused quite a sensation throughout the 
church. As the dominie generally preached by the hour, 
a bucket of water was providently placed on a bench near 
the door, in summer, with a tin cup beside it, for the solace 
of those who might be athirst, either from the heat of the 
weather or the drought of the sermon. 

Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat 
the elders of the church, reverend, gray-headed, leathern- 
visaged men, whom I regarded with awe, as so many apostles. 
They were stern in their sanctity, kept a vigilant eye upon 
my giggling companions and myself, and shook a rebuking 
finger at any boyish device to relieve the tediousness of com- 
pulsory devotion. Vain, however, were all their efforts at 
vigilance. Scarcely had the preacher held forth for half 
an hour, in one of his interminable sermons, than it seemed 
as if the drowsy influence of Sleepy Hollow breathed into 
the place : one by one the congregation sank into slumber ; 
the sanctified elders leaned back in their pews, spreading 
their handkerchiefs over their faces, as if to keep off the flies ; 
while the locusts in the neighboring trees would spin out 
their sultry summer notes, vying with the sleep-provoking 
tones of the dominie. 

I have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow 



432 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

and its church, as I recollect them to have been in the days 
of my boyhood. It was in my stripling days, when a few 
years had passed over my head, that I revisited them, in 
company with the venerable Diedrich. I shall never forget 
the antiquarian reverence with which that sage and excellent 
man contemplated the church. It seemed as if all his pious 
enthusiasm for the ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his 
bosom at the sight. The tears stood in his eyes as he re- 
garded the pulpit and the communion-table ; even the very 
bricks that had come from the mother-country seemed to 
touch a filial chord within his bosom. He almost bowed in 
deference to the stone above the porch, containing the names 
of Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van Courtlandt, regard- 
ing it as the linking together of those patronymic names 
once so famous along the banks of the Hudson ; or rather 
as a key-stone, binding that mighty Dutch family connection 
of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers, and the other 
on the Croton. Nor did he forbear to notice with admira- 
tion the windy contest which had been carried on since 
time immemorial, and with real Dutch perseverance, between 
the two weathercocks ; though I could easily perceive he 
coincided with the one which had come from Holland. 

Together we paced the ample church-yard. With deep 
veneration would he turn down the weeds and brambles that 
obscured the modest brown gravestones, half sunk in earth, 
on which were recorded, in Dutch, the names of the patri- 
archs of ancient days, — the Ackers, the Yan Tassels, and the 
Van Warts. As we sat on one of the tombstones, he re- 
counted to me the exploits of many of these worthies ; and 
my heart smote me, when I heard of their great doings in 
days of yore, to think how heedlessly I had once sported 
over their graves. 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 433 

From the church the venerable Diedrich proceeded in 
his researches up the Hollow. The genius of the place 
seemed to hail its future historian. All Nature was alive 
with gratulation. The quail whistled a greeting from the 
cornfield ; the robin carolled a song of praise from the or- 
chard ; the loquacious cat-bird flew from bush to bush, with 
restless wing, proclaiming his approach in every variety of 
note, and anon would whisk about and perk inquisitively 
into his face, as if to get a knowledge of his physiognomy ; 
the woodpecker, also, tapped a tattoo on the hollow apple- 
tree, and then peered knowingly round the trunk to see how 
the great Diedrich relished his salutation ; while the ground- 
squirrel scampered along the fence, and occasionally whisked 
his tail over his head by way of a huzza ! 

The worthy Diedrich pursued his researches in the valley 
with characteristic devotion ; entering familiarly into the vari- 
ous cottages, and gossiping with the simple folk, in the style 
of their own simplicity. I confess my heart yearned with 
admiration, to see so great a man, in his eager quest after 
knowledge, humbly demeaning himself to curry favor with 
the humblest ; sitting patiently on a three-legged stool, pat- 
ting the children, and taking a purring grimalkin on his lap, 
while he conciliated the good-will of the old Dutch house- 
wife, and drew from her long ghost-stories, spun out to the 
humming accompaniment of her wheel. 

His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was dis- 
covered in an old goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks 
and water-falls, with clanking wheels, and rushing streams, 
and all kinds of uncouth noises. A horseshoe, nailed to 
the door to keep off witches and evil spirits, showed that 
this mill was subject to awful visitations. As we approached 



4.*) 4 SLEEPY nOLLOW. 

it, an old aegro thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out 
of a hole above the water-wheel, and grinned, and 1 oiled 
his eyes, and looked like the very hobgoblin of the place. 
The illustrious Diedrich fixed upon him, at once, as the very 
one to give him that invaluable kind of information, never 
to be acquired from books. He beckoned him from his nest, 
sat with him by the hour on a broken mill-stone, by the side 
of the water-fall, heedless of the noise of the water and the 
clatter of the mill ; and I verily believe it was to his con- 
ference with this African sage, and the precious revelations 
of the good dame of the spinning-wheel, that we are in- 
debted for the surprising though true history of " Ichabod 
Crane and the Headless Horseman," which has since as- 
tounded and edified the world. 

But I have said enough of the good old times of my youth- 
ful days ; let me speak of the Hollow as I found it, after an 
absence of many years, when it was kindly given me once 
more to revisit the haunts of my boyhood. It was a genial 
day as I approached that fated region. The warm sunshine 
was tempered by a slight haze, so as to give a dreamy effect 
to the landscape. Not a breath of air shook the foliage. The 
broad Tappan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops, with 
drooping sails, slept on its glassy bosom. Columns of smoke, 
from burning brushwood, rose lazily from the folds of the 
hills, on the opposite side of the river, and slowly expanded 
in mid-air. The distant lowing of a cow, or the noontide 
crowing of a cock, coming faintly to the ear, seemed to illus- 
trate, rather than disturb, the drowsy quiet of the scene. 

I entered the Hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to 
my apprehensions, I found it but little changed. The march 
of intellect, which had made such rapid strides along every 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 435 

river and highway, had not yet, apparently, turned down into 
this favored valley. Perhaps the wizard spell of ancient 
days still reigned over the place, binding up the faculties 
of the inhabitants in happy contentment with things as they 
had been handed down to them from yore. There were the 
same little farms and farm-houses, with their old hats for the 
house-keeping wren ; their stone wells, moss-covered buckets, 
and long balancing-poles. There were the same little rills, 
whimpering down to pay their tributes to the Pocantico ; 
while that wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old, 
through solemn woodlands and fresh green meadows : nor 
were there wanting joyous holiday boys, to loiter along its 
banks, as I had done ; throw their pin-hooks in the stream, 
or launch their mimic barks. I watched them with a kind 
of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they were under 
the same spell of the fancy that once rendered this valley 
a fairy land to me. Alas ! alas ! to me everything now stood 
revealed in its simple reality. The echoes no longer an 
swered with wizard tongues ; the dream of youth was at an 
end ; the spell of Sleepy Hollow was broken ! 

I sought the ancient church on the following Sunday. 
There it stood, on its green bank, among the trees ; the 
Pocantico swept by it in a deep dark stream, where I had 
so often angled ; there expanded the mill-pond, as of old, 
with the cows under the willows on its margin, knee-deep 
in water, chewing the cud, and lashing the flies from their 
sides with their tails. The hand of improvement, however, 
had been busy with the venerable pile. The pulpit, fabri- 
cated in Holland, had been superseded by one of modern 
construction, and the front of the semi-Gothic edifice was 
decorated by a semi-Grecian portico. Fortunately, the two 



43G SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

weathercocks remained undisturbed on their perches, at each 
end of the church, and still kept up a diametrical opposition 
to each other on all points of windy doctrine. 

On entering the church the changes of time continued 
to be apparent. The elders round the pulpit were men whom 
I had left in the gamesome frolic of their youth, but who had 
succeeded to the sanctity of station of which they once had 
stood so much in awe. TThat most struck my eye was the 
change in the female part of the congregation. Instead of 
the primitive garbs of homespun manufacture and antique 
Dutch fashion, I beheld French sleeves, French capes, and 
French collars, and a fearful fluttering of French ribbons. 

"When the service was ended I sought the church-yard 
in which I had sported in my unthinking days of boyhood. 
Several of the modest brown stones, on which were recorded, 
in Dutch, the names and virtues of the patriarchs, had dis- 
appeared, and had been succeeded by others of white mar- 
ble, with urns, and wreaths, and scraps of English tomb- 
stone poetry, marking the intrusion of taste, and literature, 
and the English language, in this once unsophisticated Dutch 
neighborhood. 

As I was stumbling about among these silent yet eloquent 
memorials of the dead, I came upon names familiar to me, — 
of those who had paid the debt of Nature during the long 
interval of my absence. Some I remembered, my compan- 
ions in boyhood, who had sported with me on the very sod 
under which they were now mouldering ; others, who in those 
days had been the flower of the yeomanry, figuring in Sun- 
day finery on the church-green ; others, the white-haired elders 
of the sanctuary, once arrayed in awful sanctity around the 
pulpit, and ever ready to rebuke the ill-timed mirth of the 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 437 

wanton stripling, who, now a man, sobered by years and • 
schooled by vicissitudes, looked down pensively upon their 
graves. " Our fathers," thought I, " where are they ? — and 
the prophets, can they live forever ? " 

I was disturbed in my meditations by the noise of a troop 
of idle urchins, who came gambolling about the place where 
] had so often gambolled. They were checked, as I and 
my playmates had often been, by the voice of the sexton, a 
man staid in years and demeanor. I looked wistfully in his 
face ; had I met him anywhere else I should probably have 
passed him by without remark ; but here I was alive to the 
traces of former times, and detected in the demure features 
of this guardian of the sanctuary the lurking lineaments 
of one of the very playmates I have alluded to. We re- 
newed our acquaintance. He sat down beside me, on one 
of the tombstones over which we had leaped in our juvenile 
sports, and we talked together about our boyish days, and 
held edifying discourse on the instability of all sublunary 
things, as instanced in the scene around us. He was rich in 
historic lore, as to the events of the last thirty years and 
the circumference of thirty miles, and from him I learned 
the appalling revolution that was taking place throughout 
the neighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed 
to the boasted march of intellect, or rather to the all-pervad- 
ing influence of steam. He bewailed the times when the 
only communication with town was by the weekly market- 
boat, the Farmers' Daughter, which, under the pilotage of 
the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tap- 
pan Sea. Alas! Gabriel and the Farmers' Daughter slept 
in peace. Two steamboats now splashed and paddled up 
daily to the little rural port of Tarrytown. The spirit of 

19 



438 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

speculation and improvement had seized even upon that once 
quiet and unambitious little dorp. The whole neighborhood 
was laid out into town lots. Instead of the little tavern be- 
low the hill, where the farmers used to loiter on market- 
days, and indulge in cider and gingerbread, an ambitious 
hotel, with cupola and verandas, now crested the summit, 
among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles, 
showing the great increase of piety and polite taste in the 
neighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun- bonnets, they 
were no longer tolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer's 
daughter but now went to town for the fashions ; nay, a city 
milliner had recently set up in the village, who threatened 
to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood. 

I had heard enough ! I thanked my old playmate for his 
intelligence, and departed from the Sleepy Hollow church 
with the sad conviction that I had beheld the last lingerings 
of the good old Dutch times in this once favored region. 
If anything were wanting to confirm this impression, it would 
be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank 
is about to be established in the aspiring little port just men- 
tioned. The fate of the neighborhood is, therefore, sealed. 
I see no hope of averting it. The golden mean is at an end. 
The country is suddenly to be deluged with wealth. The 
late simple farmers are to become bank directors, and drink 
claret and champagne ; and their wives and daughters to 
figure in French hats and feathers ; for French wines and 
French fashions commonly keep pace with paper money. How 
can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow may escape the general 
awakening ? In a little while I fear the slumber of ages 
will be at end ; the strum of the piano will succeed to the 
hum of the spinning-wheel ; the trill of the Italian opera 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 439 

to the nasal quaver of Ichabod Crane ; and the antiquarian 
visitor to the Hollow, in the petulance of his disappointment, 
may pronounce all that I have recorded of that once spell- 
bound region a fable. 

Geoffrey Crayon, 



NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 

To the Editor of " TJie Knickerbocker": 

Sir, — I am somewhat of the same way of thinking, in re- 
gard to names, with that profound philosopher, Mr. Shandy 
the elder, who maintained that some inspired high thoughts 
and heroic aims, while others entailed irretrievable meanness 
and vulgarity ; insomuch that a man might sink under the in- 
significance of his name, and be absolutely " Nicodemused into 
nothing." I have ever, therefore, thought it a great hardship 
for a man to be obliged to struggle through life with some 
ridiculous or ignoble " Christian name," as it is too often falsely 
called, inflicted on him in infancy, when he could not choose 
for himself; and would give him free liberty to change it for 
one more to his taste, when he had arrived at years of dis- 
cretion. 

I have the same notion with respect to local names. Some 
at once prepossess us in favor of a place ; others repel us, by 
unlucky associations of the mind ; and I have known scenes 
worthy of being the very haunt of poetry and romance, yet 
doomed to irretrievable vulgarity by some ill-chosen name, 
which not even the magic numbers of a Halleck or a Bryant 
could elevate into poetical acceptation. 

This is an evil unfortunately too prevalent throughout our 
country. Nature has stamped the land with features of sub- 
limity and beauty ; but some of our noblest mountains and 



NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 441 

loveliest streams are in danger of remaining- forever unhonored 
and unsung, from bearing appellations totally abhorrent to the 
Muse. In the first place, our country is deluged with names 
taken from places in the Old World, and applied to places 
having no possible affinity or resemblance to their namesakes. 
This betokens a forlorn poverty of invention, and a second- 
hand spirit, content to cover its nakedness with borrowed or 
cast-off clothes of Europe. 

Then we have a shallow affectation of scholarship ; the whole 
catalogue of ancient worthies is shaken out from the back of 
Lempriere's " Classical Dictionary," and a wide region of wiM 
country sprinkled over with the names of the heroes, poets, 
and sages of antiquity, jumbled into the most whimsical juxta- 
position. Then we have our political god-fathers, — topographi- 
cal engineers, perhaps, or persons employed by government to 
survey and lay out townships. These, forsooth, glorify the 
patrons that give them bread ; so we have the names of the 
great official men of the day scattered over the land, as if they 
were the real " salt of the earth," with which it was to be sea- 
soned. Well for us is it when these official great men happen 
to have names of fair acceptation ; but woe unto us should a 
Tubbs or a Potts be in power ; we are sure, in a little while, 
to find Tubbsvilles and Pottsylvanias springing up in every 
direction. 

Under these melancholy dispensations of taste and loyalty, 
therefore, Mr. Editor, it is with a feeling of dawning hope 
that I have lately perceived the attention of persons of intelli- 
gence beginning to be awakened on this subject. I trust if 
the matter should once be taken up, it will not be readily 
abandoned. We are yet young enough, as a country, to rem- 
edy and reform much of what has been done, and to release 



4 12 NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 

many of our rising towns and cities, and our noble streams, 
from names calculated to vulgarize the land. 

I have, on a former occasion, suggested the expediency of 
searching out the original Indian names of places, and where- 
ever they are striking and euphonious, and those by which 
they have been superseded are glaringly objectionable, to re- 
store them. They would have the merit of originality, and of 
belonging to the country ; and they would remain as relics 
of the native lords of the soil, when every other vestige had 
disappeared. Many of these names may easily be regained, 
by reference to old title-deeds, and to the archives of States 
and counties. In my own case, by examining the records of 
the county clerk's office, I have discovered the Indian names of 
various places and objects in the neighborhood, and have found 
them infinitely superior to the trite, poverty-stricken names 
which had been given by the settlers. A beautiful pastoral 
stream, for instance, which winds for many a mile through one 
of the loveliest little valleys in the State, has long been known 
by the commonplace name of the " Saw-mill River." In the 
old Indian grants it is designated as the Neperan. Another, 
a perfectly wizard stream, which winds through the wildest 
recesses of Sleepy Hollow, bears the humdrum name of Mill 
Creek ; in the Indian grants it sustains the euphonious title 
of the Pocantico. 

Similar researches have released Long Island from many of 
those paltry and vulgar names which fringed its beautiful 
shores, — their Cow Bays, and Cow Necks, and Oyster Ponds, 
and Musquito Coves, which spread a spell of vulgarity over 
the whole island, and kept persons of taste and fancy at a 
distance. 

It would be an object worthy the attention of the historical 



NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 443 

societies, which are springing up in various parts of the Union, 
to have maps executed of their respective States or neighbor- 
hoods, in which all the local Indian names should, as far as possi- 
ble, be restored. In fact, it appears to me that the nomenclature 
of the country is almost of sufficient importance for the founda- 
tion of a distinct society ; or rather, a corresponding associa- 
tion of persons of taste and judgment, of all parts of the Union. 
Such an association, if properly constituted and composed, com- 
prising especially all the literary talent of the country, though 
it might not have legislative power in its enactments, yet 
would have the all-pervading power of the Press ; and the 
changes in nomenclature which it might dictate, being at once 
adopted by elegant writers in prose and poetry, and inter- 
woven with the literature of the country, would ultimately pass 
into popular currency. 

Should such a reforming association arise, I beg to recom- 
mend to its attention all those mongrel names that have the 
adjective New prefixed to them, and pray they may be one 
and all kicked out of the country. I am for none of these 
second-hand appellations, that stamp us a second-hand people, 
and that are to perpetuate us a new country to the end of time. 
Odds my life ! Mr. Editor, I hope and trust we are to live to 
be an old nation, as well as our neighbors, and have no idea 
that our cities, when they shall have attained to venerable an- 
tiquity, shall still be dubbed New York and New London, and 
new this and new that, like the Pont Neuf (the New Bridge) 
at Paris, which is the oldest bridge in that capital, or like the 
Vicar of Wakefield's horse, which continued to be called "the 
colt " until he died of old age. 

Speaking of New York, reminds me of some observations 
which I met with some time since, in one of the public papers, 



Hi NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 

about the name of our State and city. The writer proposes 
to substitute for the present names, those of the State of 
Ontario and the City of Manhattan. I concur in his sug- 
gestion most heartily. Though born and brought up in the 
city of New York, and though I love every stick and stone 
about it, yet I do not, nor ever did, relish its name. I like 
neither its sound nor its significance. As to its significance, 
the very adjective new gives to our great commercial metropo- 
lis a second-hand character, as if referring to some older, more 
dignified, and important place, of which it was a mere copy ; 
though in fact, if I am rightly informed, the whole name com- 
memorates a grant by Charles IT. to his brother, the Duke of 
York, made in the spirit of royal munificence, of a tract of 
country which did not belong to him. As to the sound, what 
can you make of it, either in poetry or prose ? New York ! 
Why, sir, if it were to share the fate of Troy itself; to suffer 
a ten years' siege, and be sacked and plundered ; no modern 
Homer would ever be able to elevate the name to epic dignity. 
Now, sir, Ontario would be a name worthy of the Empire 
State. It bears with it the majesty of that internal sea which 
washes our northwestern shore. Or, if any objection should 
be made, from its not being completely embraced within our 
boundaries, there is the Mohegan, one of the Indian names 
for that glorious river, the Hudson, which would furnish an 
excellent State appellation. So also New York might be called 
Manhatta, as it is named in some of the early records, and 
Manhattan used as the adjective. Manhattan, however, stands 
well as a substantive, and " Manhattanese," which I observe 
Mr. Cooper has adopted in some of his writings, would be a 
very good appellation for a citizen of the commercial metrop- 
olis. 



NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 445 

A word or two more, Mr. Editor, and I have done. "We 
want a national name. We want it poetically, and we want 
it politically. With the poetical necessity of the case I shall 
not trouble myself. I leave it to our poets to tell how they 
manage to steer that collocation of words, " The United States 
of North America," down the swelling tide of song, and to 
float the whole raft out upon the sea of heroic poesy. I am 
now speaking of the mere purposes of common life. How is 
a citizen of this republic to designate himself? As an Ameri- 
can ? There are two Americas, each subdivided into various 
empires, rapidly rising in importance. As a citizen of the 
United States ? It is a clumsy, lumbering title, yet still it is 
not distinctive ; for we have now the United States of Central 
America, and Heaven knows how many " United States " may 
spring up under the Proteus changes of Spanish America. 

This may appear matter of small concernment ; but any one 
that has travelled in foreign countries must be conscious of 
the embarrassment and circumlocution sometimes occasioned 
by the want of a perfectly distinct and explicit national appella- 
tion. In France, when I have announced myself as an Amer- 
ican, I have been supposed to belong to one of the French 
colonies ; in Spain, to be from Mexico, or Peru, or some other 
Spanish American country. Repeatedly have I found myself 
involved in a long geographical and political definition of my 
national identity. 

Now, sir, meaning no disrespect to any of our coheirs of 
this great quarter of the world, I am for none of this copar- 
ceny in a name, that is to mingle us up with the rifF-raff 
colonies and off-sets of every nation of Europe. The title of 
American may serve to tell the quarter of the world to which 
I belong, the same as a Frenchman or an Englishman may 
19* 



146 NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 

3all himself a European ; but I want my own peculiar national 
name to rally under. I want an appellation that shall tell at 
once, and in a way not to be mistaken, that I belong to this 
very portion of America, geographical and political, to which 
it is my pride and happiness to belong ; that I am of the Anglo- 
Saxon race which founded this Anglo-Saxon empire in the 
wilderness ; and that I have no part or parcel with any other 
race or empire, Spanish, French, or Portuguese, in either of 
the Americas. Such an appellation, sir, would have magic 
in it. It would bind every part of the confederacy together, 
as with a key-stone ; it would be a passport to the citizen of 
our republic throughout the world. 

We have it in our power to furnish ourselves with such a 
national appellation, from one of the grand and eternal feat- 
ures of r\ir country; from that noble chain of mountains 
which formed its backbone, and ran through the " old confed- 
eracy," when it first declared our national independence. I 
allude to the Appalachian or Alleghany mountains. We might 
do this without any very inconvenient change in our present 
titles. We might still use the phrase, " The United States," 
substituting Appalachia, or Alleghania, (I should prefer the 
latter,) in place of America. The title of Appalachian, or 
Alleghanian, would still announce us as Americans, but Avould 
specify us as citizens of the Great Republic. Even our old 
national cypher of U. S. A. might remain unaltered, designat- 
ing the United States of Alleghania. 

These are crude ideas, Mr. Editor, hastily thrown out, to 
elicit the ideas of others, and to call attention to a subject 
of more national importance than may at first be supposed. 
, Very respectfully yours, 

Geoffrey Crayon. 



DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 

" Let a man write never so well, there are nowadays a sort of persons they 
«all critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses; 
but they '11 laugh at you, sir, and find fault, and censure things, that, egad, I 'm 
sure they are not able to do themselves; a sort of envious persons, that emulate 
the glories of persons of parts, and think to build their fame by calumniation of 
persons that, egad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are in nature 
the persons that do as much despise all that, as — a — . In fine, I '11 say no 
more of 'em! " Kehearsal. 

All the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voy- 
ager, who, coming upon a strange coast, and seeing a man 
hanging in chains, hailed it with joy as the sign of a civilized 
country. In like manner we may hail, as a proof of the rapid 
advancement of civilization and refinement in this country, the 
increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted for the 
edification of the public. 

In this respect, as in every other, we are " going ahead " with 
accelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannu- 
ated countries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the 
number of tribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of 
literary offences. Independent of the high courts of Oyer and 
Terminer, the great quarterly reviews, we have innumerable 
minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, down to the Pie-poudre 
courts in the daily papers ; insomuch that no culprit stands so 
little chance of escaping castigation as an unlucky author, 
guilty of an unsuccessful attempt to please the public. 



448 DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 

Seriously speaking, however, it is questionable whether our 
national literature is sufficiently advanced to bear this excess 
of criticism ; and whether it would not thrive better if allowed 
to spring up, for some time longer, in the freshness and vigor 
nf native vegetation. When the worthy Judge Coulter, of Vir- 
ginia, opened court for the first time in one of the upper coun- 
ties, he was for enforcing all the rules and regulations that had 
grown into use in the old, long-settled counties. " This is all 
very well," said a shrewd old farmer ; " but let me tell you, 
Judge Coulter, you set your coulter too deep for a new soil." 

For my part, I doubt whether either writer or reader is ben* 
efited by what is commonly called criticism. The former is 
rendered cautious and distrustful ; he fears to give way to those 
kindling emotions, and brave sallies of thought, which bear 
him up to excellence ; the latter is made fastidious and cyn- 
ical ; or rather, he surrenders his own independent taste and 
judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand. 

Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing 
called criticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary 
world. The pronoun we, used by critics, has a most imposing 
and delusive sound. The reader pictures to himself a conclave 
of learned men, deliberating gravely and scrupulously on the 
merits of the book in question ; examining it page by page, 
comparing and balancing their opinions, and when they have 
united in a conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit 
of the world : whereas the criticism is generally the crude and 
hasty production of an individual, scribbling to while away an 
idle hour, to oblige a bookseller, or to defray current expenses. 
How often is it the passing notion of the hour, affected by acci- 
dental circumstances ; by indisposition, by peevishness, by 
vapors or indigestion, by personal prejudice or party feeling. 



DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 449 

Sometimes a work is sacrificed because the reviewer wishes a 
satirical article ; sometimes because he wants a humorous one ; 
and sometimes because the author reviewed has become offen- 
sively celebrated, and offers high game to the literary marks- 
man. 

How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man, 
reverse his opinion, had he time to revise it in a more sunny 
moment ; but the press is waiting, the printer's devil is at his 
elbow, the article is wanted to make the requisite variety for 
the number of the review, or the author has pressing occasion 
for the sum he is to receive for the article ; so it is sent off, all 
blotted and blurred, with a shrug of the shoulders, and the 
consolatory ejaculation, " Pshaw ! curse it ! it 's nothing but a 
review ! " 

The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is 
perhaps some dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were 
he to speak byword of mouth, would be disregarded, if not 
scoffed at ; but such is the magic of types ; such the mystic op- 
eration of anonymous writing ; such the potential effect of the 
pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated through the 
press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions of 
the world, and give or destroy reputation. 

Many readers have grown timorous in their judgments since 
the all-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express 
a revised, frank opinion about any new work, and to relish it 
honestly and heartily, lest it should be condemned in the next 
review, and they stand convicted of bad taste. Hence they 
hedge their opinions, like a gambler his bets, and leave an 
opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify, and neutralize 
every unguarded expression of delight, until their very praise 
declines into a faintness that is damning. 



loO DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 

"Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and 
speak his mind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more 
true criticism in the world than at present. Whenever a per- 
son is pleased with a work, he may be assured that it has good 
qualities. An author who pleases a variety of readers, must 
possess substantial powers of pleasing ; or, in other words, in- 
trinsic merits ; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect and 
deny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer him- 
self to be readily shaken from the conviction of his own feel- 
ings by the sweeping censures of pseudo critics. The author 
he has admired may be chargeable with a thousand faults ; 
but it is nevertheless beauties and excellences that have ex- 
cited his admiration ; and he should recollect that taste and 
judgment are as much evinced in the perception of beauties 
among defects, as in a detection of defects among beauties. 
For my part, I honor the blessed and blessing spirit that is 
quick to discover and extol all that is pleasing and meritorious. 
Give me the honest bee, that extracts honey from the humblest 
weed, but save me from the ingenuity of the spider, which 
traces its venom even in the midst of a flower-garden. 

If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imper- 
fections is to condemn an author, who is to escape ? The 
greatest writers of antiquity have, in this way, been obnoxious 
to criticism. Aristotle himself has been accused of ignorance ; 
Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery ; Virgil of plagiarism, 
and a want of invention ; Horace of obscurity ; Cicero has 
been said to want vigor and connection, and Demosthenes to be 
deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have 
all survived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a 
glorious immortality. Every now and then, the world is startled 
by some new doctrines in matters of taste, some levelling at- 



DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 4.51 

tacks on established creeds ; some sweeping denunciations of 
whole generations or schools of writers, as they are called, who 
had seemed to be embalmed and canonized in public opinion. 
Such has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and Dryden, 
and Addison ; who for a time have almost been shaken from 
their pedestals, and treated as false idols. 

It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with 
respect to its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and pre- 
pares the way for dislike. The public is always for positive 
sentiments, and. new sensations. When wearied of admiring, 
it delights to censure ; thus coining a double set of enjoyments 
out of the same subject. Scott and Byron are scarce cold in 
their graves, and already we find criticism beginning to call in 
question those powers which held the world in magic thraldom. 
Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has had 
some rough passages with the censors of the press ; and in- 
stantly criticism begins to unsay all that it has repeatedly said 
in his praise ; and the public are almost led to believe that the 
pen which has so often delighted them is absolutely destitute 
of the power to delight ! 

If, then, such reverses in opinion as to matters of taste can 
be so readily brought about, when may an author feel himself 
secure ? Where is the anchoring-ground of popularity, when 
he may thus be driven from his moorings, and foundered even 
in harbor ? The reader, too, when is he to consider himself 
safe in admiring, when he sees long-established altars over- 
thrown, and his household deities dashed to the ground ? 

There is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries 
with it its own remedy or palliation. Thus the excess of crude 
and hasty criticism, which has of late prevailed throughout the 
literary world, and threatened to overrun our country, begins 



4 J 2 DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 

u> prouuce its own antidote. Where there is a multiplicity 
of contradictory paths, a man must make his choice ; in so 
doing, he has to exercise his judgment, and that is one great 
step to mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where 
all differ, and but one can be in the right. He is driven to 
trust his own discernment, and his natural feelings ; and here 
he is most likely to be safe. The author, too, finding that what 
is condemned at one tribunal is applauded at another, though 
perplexed for a time, gives way at length to the spontaneous 
impulse of his genius, and the dictates of his taste, and writes 
in the way most natural to himself. It is thus that criticism, 
which by its severity may have held the little world of writers 
in check, may, by its very excess, disarm itself of its terrors, 
and the hardihood of talent become restored. 



COMMUNIPAW. 

To the Editor of "The Knickerbocker" 

Sir, — I observe with pleasure that you are performing, 
from time to time, a pious duty, imposed upon you, I may 
say, by the name you have adopted as your titular standard, 
in following in the footsteps of the venerable Knickerbocker, and 
gleaning every fact concerning the early times of the Man- 
hattoes, which may have escaped his hand. I trust, therefore, 
a few particulars, legendary and statistical, concerning a place 
which figures conspicuously in the early pages of his history, 
will not be unacceptable. I allude, sir, to the ancient and re- 
nowned village of Communipaw, which, according to the vera- 
cious Diedrich, and to equally veracious tradition, was the first 
spot where our ever-to-be-lamented Dutch progenitors planted 
their standard, and cast the seeds of empire, and from whence 
subsequently sailed the memorable expedition, under OlofFe the 
Dreamer, which landed on the opposite island of Manahatta, 
and founded the present city of New York, — the city of 
dreams and speculations. , 

Communipaw, therefore, may truly be called the parent of 
New York ; yet it is an astonishing fact, that though imme- 
diately opposite to the great city it has produced, from whence 
its red roofs and tin weathercocks can actually be descried 
peering above the surrounding apple orchards, it should be 
almost as rarely visited, and as little known by the inhabitants 
of the metropolis, as if it had been locked up among the Rocky 



•154 COMMUNIPAW. 

Mountains. Sir, I think there is something unnatural in this, 
especially in these times of ramble and research, when our 
citizens are antiquity-hunting in every part of the world. Cu- 
riosity, like charity, should begin at home ; and I would enjoin 
it on our worthy burghers, especially those of the real Knick- 
erbocker breed, before they send their sons abroad, to wonder 
and grow wise among the remains of Greece and Rome, to let 
them make a tour of ancient Pavonia, from Weehawk even to 
the Kills, and meditate, with filial reverence, on the moss- 
grown mansions of Communipaw. 

Sir, I regard this much-neglected village as one of the most 
remarkable places in the country. The intelligent traveller, as 
he looks down upon it from the Bergen Heights, modestly nes- 
tled among its cabbage-gardens, while the great flaunting city 
it has begotten is stretching far and wide on the opposite side 
of the bay, the intelligent traveller, I say, will be filled with 
astonishment ; not, sir, at the village of Communipaw, which in 
truth is a very small village, but at the almost incredible fact 
that so small a village should have produced so great a city. 
It looks to him, indeed, like some squat little dame with a tall 
grenadier of a son strutting by her side; or some simple- 
hearted hen that has unwittingly hatched out a long-legged 
turkey. 

But this is not all for which Communipaw is remarkable. 
Sir, it is interesting on another account. It is to the ancient 
Province of the New Netherlands, and the classic era of the 
Dutch dynasty, what Herculaneum and Pompeii are to ancient 
Rome and the glorious days of the Empire. Here everything 
remains in statu quo, as it was in the days of Oloffe the 
Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, and the other worthies of the 
golden age ; the same broad-brimmed hats and broad-bottomed 



COMMUNIPAW. 455 

breeches ; the same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles ; the same 
close quilled caps, and linsey-woolsey short-gowns and petti- 
coats ; the same implements and utensils, and forms and fash- 
ions ; in a word, Communipaw at the present day is a picture 
of what New Amsterdam was before the conquest. The " in- 
telligent traveller," aforesaid, as he treads its streets, is struck 
with the primitive character of everything around him. In- 
stead of Grecian temples for dwelling-houses, with a great 
column of pine boards in the way of every window, he beholds 
high, peaked roofs, gable-ends to the street, with weathercocks 
at top, and windows of all sorts and sizes, — large ones for the 
grown-up members of the family, and little ones for the little 
folk. Instead of cold marble porches, with close-locked doors, 
and brass knockers, he sees the doors hospitably open ; the 
worthy burgher smoking his pipe on the old-fashioned stoop in 
front, with his " vrouw " knitting beside him ; and the cat and 
her kittens at their feet, sleeping in the sunshine. 

Astonished at the obsolete and " old-world " air of every- 
thing around him, the intelligent traveller demands how all 
this has come to pass. Herculaneum and Pompeii remain, it 
is true, unaffected by the varying fashions of centuries ; but 
they were buried by a volcano and preserved in ashes. What 
charmed spell has kept this wonderful little place unchanged, 
though in sight of the most changeful city in the universe ? 
Has it, too, been buried under its cabbage-gardens, and only 
dug out in modern days for the wonder and edification of the 
world? The reply involves a point of history, worthy of notice 
and record, and reflecting immortal honor on Communipaw. 

At the time when New Amsterdam was invaded and con- 
quered by British foes, as has been related in the history of the 
venerable Diedrich, a great dispersion took place among the 



LOU COMMUNIPAW. 

Dutch inhabitants. Many, like the illustrious Peter Stuyvesant, 
buried themselves in rural retreats in the Bowerie ; others, like 
TTolfert Acker, took refuge in various remote parts of the 
Hudson ; but there was one stanch, unconquerable band, that 
determined to keep together, and preserve themselves, like 
seed-corn, for the future fructification and perpetuity of the 
Knickerbocker race. These were headed by one Garret Van 
Home, a gigantic Dutchman, the Pelayo of the New Nether- 
lands. Under his guidance, they retreated across the bay, and 
buried themselves among the marshes of ancient Pavonia, as 
did the followers of Pelayo among the mountains of Asturias, 
when Spain was overrun by its Arabian invaders. 

The gallant Van Home set up his standard at Communipaw, 
and invited all those to rally under it who were true Neder- 
landers at heart, and determined to resist all foreign inter- 
mixture or encroachment. A strict non-intercourse was 
observed with the captured city ; not a boat ever crossed 
to it from Communipaw, and the English language was rig- 
orously tabooed throughout the village and its dependencies. 
Every man was sworn to wear his hat, cut his coat, build his 
house, and harness his horses, exactly as his father had done 
before him ; and to permit nothing but the Dutch language to 
be spoken in his household. 

As a citadel of the place, and a stronghold for the pres- 
ervation and defence of everything Dutch, the gallant Van 
Home erected a lordly mansion, with a chimney perched at 
every corner, which thence derived the aristocratical name of 
" The House of the Four Chimnies." Hither he transferred 
many of the precious relics of New Amsterdam, — the great 
round-crowned hat that once covered the capacious head of 
Walter the Doubter, and the identical shoe with which Peter 



COMMUNIPAW. 457 

the Headstrong kicked his pusillanimous councillors down 
stairs. Saint Nicholas, it is said, took this loyal house under 
his especial protection ; and a Dutch soothsayer predicted that, 
as long as it should stand, Communipaw would be safe from the 
intrusion either of Briton or Yankee. 

In this house would the gallant Van Home and his compeers 
hold frequent councils of war, as to the possibility of re-con- 
qnering the Province from the British ; and here would they 
sit for hours, nay days together, smoking their pipes, and keep- 
ing watch upon the growing city of New York ; groaning in 
spirit whenever they saw a new house erected, or ship 
launched, and persuading themselves that Admiral Van Tromp 
would one day or other arrive, to sweep out the invaders with 
the broom which he carried at his mast-head. 

Years rolled by, but Van Tromp never arrived. The Brit- 
ish strengthened themselves in the land, and the captured city 
flourished under their domination. Still, the worthies of Com- 
munipaw would not despair ; something or other, they were 
sure, would turn up, to restore the power of the Hogen Mogens, 
the Lord States General ; so they kept smoking and smoking, 
and watching and watching, and turning the same few thoughts 
over and over in a perpetual circle, which is commonly 
called deliberating. In the mean time, being hemmed up 
within a narrow compass, between the broad bay and the Ber- 
gen Hills, they grew poorer and poorer, until they had scarce 
the wherewithal to maintain their pipes in fuel during their 
endless deliberations. 

And now must I relate a circumstance which will call for a 
Httle exertion of faith on the part of the reader ; but I can 
only say that if he doubts it he had better not utter his doubts 
in Communipaw, as it is among the religious beliefs of the 



458 COMMUNIPAW. 

place. It is, in fact, nothing more nor less than a miracle, 
worked by the blessed Saint Nicholas, for the relief and sus- 
tenance of this loyal community. 

It so happened, in this time of extremity, that, in the course 
of cleaning the House of the Four Chinmies, by an ignorant 
housewife, who knew nothing of the historic value of the 
relics it contained, the old hat of Walter the Doubter, and 
the executive shoe of Peter the Headstrong, were thrown out 
of doors as rubbish. But mark the consequence. The good 
Saint Nicholas kept watch over these precious relics, and 
wrought out of them a wonderful providence. 

The hat of Walter the Doubter, falling on a stercoraceous 
heap of compost, in the rear of the house, began forthwith to 
vegetate. Its broad brim spread forth grandly, and exfoliated, 
and its round crown swelled, and crimped, and consolidated, 
until the whole became a prodigious cabbage, rivalling in mag- 
nitude the capacious head of the Doubter. In a word, it was 
the origin of that renowed species of cabbage, known by all 
Dutch epicures by the name of the Governor's Head, and 
which is to this day the glory of Communipaw. 

On the other hand, the shoe of Peter Stuyvesant, being 
thrown into the river, in front of the house, gradually hardened, 
and concreted, and became covered with barnacles, and at 
ength turned into a gigantic oyster ; being the progenitor of 
that illustrious species, known throughout the gastronomical 
world by the name of the Governor's Foot. 

These miracles were the salvation of Communipaw. The 
sages of the place immediately saw in them the hand of Saint 
Nicholas, and understood their mystic signification. They set 
to work, with all diligence, to cultivate and multiply these great 
blessings; and so abundantly did the gubernatorial hat and 



COMMUNIPAW. 459 

shoe fructify and increase, that in a little time great patches of 
cabbages were to be seen extending from the village of Com- 
munipaw quite to the Bergen Hills ; while the whole bottom 
of the bay in front became a vast bed of oysters. Ever since 
that time, this excellent community has been divided into two 
great classes, those who cultivate the land, and those who 
cultivate the water. The former have devoted themselves to 
the nurture and edification of cabbages, rearing them in all 
their varieties ; while the latter have formed parks and plan- 
tations, under water, to which juvenile oysters are transplanted 
from foreign parts, to finish their education. 

As these great sources of profit multiplied upon their hands, 
the worthy inhabitants of Communipaw began to long for a 
market, at which to dispose of their superabundance. This 
gradually produced, once more, an intercourse with New York ; 
but it was always carried on by the old people and the negroes ; 
never would they permit the young folks, of either sex, to visit 
the city, lest they should get tainted with foreign manners, and 
bring home foreign fashions. Even to this day, if you see an 
old burgher in the market, with hat and garb of antique Dutch 
fashion, you may be sure he is one of the old unconquered 
race of the " bitter blood," who maintain their stronghold at 
Communipaw. 

In modern days, the hereditary bitterness against the Eng- 
lish has lost much of its asperity, or rather has become merged 
in a new source of jealousy and apprehension. I allude to the 
incessant and wide-spreading irruptions from New England. 
Word has been continually brought back to Communipaw, by 
those of the community who return from their trading voyages 
in cabbages and oysters, of the alarming power which the 
Yankees are gaining in the ancient city of New Amsterdam ; 



460 . COMMUNIPAW. 

elbowing the genuine Knickerbockers .out of all civic posts of 
honor and profit ; bargaining them out of their hereditary 
homesteads ; pulling down the venerable houses, with crowstep 
gables, which have stood since the time of the Dutch rule, and 
erecting, instead, granite stores and marble banks ; in a word, 
evincing a deadly determination to obliterate every vestige of 
the good old Dutch times. 

In consequence of the jealousy thus awakened, the worthy 
traders from Communipaw confine their dealings, as much as 
possible, to the genuine Dutch families. If they furnish the 
Yankees at all, it is with inferior articles. Never can the latter 
procure a real " Governor's Plead," or " Governor's Foot," 
though they have offered extravagant prices for the same, to 
grace their table on the annual festival of the New England 
Society. 

But what has carried this hostility to the Yankees to the 
highest pitch, was an attempt made by that all-pervading race 
to get possession of Communipaw itself. Yes, sir ; during the 
late mania for land speculation, a daring company of Yankee 
projectors landed before the village, stopped the honest burgh- 
ers on the public highway, and endeavored to bargain them 
out of their hereditary acres ; displayed lithographic maps, in 
which their cabbage-gardens were laid out into town lots ; their 
oyster-parks into docks and quays ; and even the " House of 
the Four Chimnies " metamorphosed into a bank, which was to 
enrich the whole neighborhood w T ith paper money. 

Fortunately, the gallant Van Homes came to the rescue, 
just as some of the worthy burghers w r ere on the point of ca- 
pitulating. The Yankees were put to the rout, with signal 
confusion, and have never since dared to show their faces in 
the place. The good people continue to cultivate their cab- 



COMMUNIPAW. 40)1 

bages, and rear their oysters ; they know nothing of banks, 
nor joint-stock companies, but treasure up their money in 
stocking-feet, at the bottom of the family chest, or bury it in 
iron pots, as did their fathers and grandfathers before them. 

As to the " House of the Four Chimnies," it still remains in 
the great and tall family of the Van Homes. Here are to be 
seen ancient Dutch corner cupboards, chests of drawers, and 
massive clothes-presses, quaintly carved, and carefully waxed 
and polished ; together with divers thick, black-letter volumes, 
with brass clasps, printed of yore in Leyden and Amsterdam, 
and handed down from generation to generation, in the family, 
but never read. They are preserved in the archives, among 
sundry old parchment deeds, in Dutch and English, bearing 
the seals of the early governors of the province. 

In this house, the primitive Dutch holidays of Paas and 
Pinxter are faithfully kept up ; and New- Year celebrated with 
cookies and cherry-bounce ; nor is the festival of the blessed 
Saint Nicholas forgotten, when all the children are sure to 
hang up their stockings, and to have them filled according to 
their deserts ; though it is said the good saint is occasionally 
perplexed, in his nocturnal visits, which chimney to descend. 
• Of late, this portentious mansion has begun to give signs of 
dilapidation and decay. Some have attributed this to the visits 
made by the young people to the city, and their bringing 
thence various modern fashions ; and to their neglect of the 
Dutch language, which is gradually becoming confined to the 
older persons in the community. The house, too, was greatly 
shaken by high winds during the prevalence of the speculation 
mania, especially at the time of the landing of the Yankees. 
Seeing how mysteriously the fate of Communipaw is identified 
with this venerable mansion, we cannot wonder that the older 
20 



162 COMMUNIPAW. 

and wiser heads of the community should be filled with dismay 
whenever a brick is toppled down from one of the chimnies, or 
a weathercock is blown off from a gable-end. 

The present lord of this historic pile, I am happy to say, is 
calculated to maintain it in all its integrity. He is of patri- 
archal age, and is worthy of the days of the patriarchs. He 
ha? done his utmost to increase and multiply the true race in 
the land. His wife has not been inferior to him in zeal, and 
they are surrounded by a goodly progeny of children, and 
grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who promise to per- 
petuate the name of Van Home until time shall be no more. 
So be it ! Long may the horn of the Van Homes continue to 
be exalted in the land ! Tall as they are, may their shadows 
never be less ! May the " House of the Four Chimnies " re- 
main for ages the citadel of Communipaw, and the smoke of 
its chimnies continue to ascend, a sweet-smelling incense in 
the nose of Saint Nicholas ! 

With great respect, Mr. Editor, 

Your ob't servant, 

Hermanus Vanderionk. 



CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

« 

To the Editor of " The Knickerbocker " : 

Sir, — I have read, with great satisfaction, the valuable paper 
of your correspondent, Mr. Hermanus Vanderdonk, (who, I 
Lake it, is a descendant of the learned Adrian Vanderdonk, one 
of the early historians of the Nieuw-Nederlands,) giving sundry 
particulars, legendary and statistical, touching the venerable vil- 
lage of Communipaw, and its fate-bound citadel, the " House of 
the Four Chimnies." It goes to prove, what I have repeatedly 
maintained, that we live in the midst of history, and mystery, 
and romance ; and that there is no spot in the world more rich 
in themes for the writer of historic novels, heroic melodramas, 
and rough-shod epics, than this same business-looking city of 
the Manhattoes and its environs. He who would find these 
elements, however, must not seek them among the modern im- 
provements and modern people of this monied metropolis, but 
must dig for them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out-of- 
the-way places, and among the ruins of the past. 

Poetry and romance received a fatal blow at the overthrow 
of the ancient Dutch dynasty, and have ever since been grad- 
ually withering under the growing domination of the Yankees. 
They abandoned our hearths when the old Dutch tiles were 
superseded by marble chimney-pieces ; when brass andirons 
made way for polished grates, and the crackling and blazing 
fire of nut-wood gave place to the smoke imd stench of Liver- 
pool coal ; and the 



464 CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

their requiem was tolled from the tower of the Dutch church 
id Nassau Street, by the old bell that came from Holland. But 
poetry and romance still live unseen among us, or seen only 
by the enlightened feAV who are able to contemplate this city 
and its environs through the medium of tradition, and clothed 
with the associations of foregone ages. 

Would you seek these elements in the country, Mr. Editor 
avoid all turnpikes, railroads, and steamboats, those abominable 
inventions by which the usurping Yankees are strengthening 
themselves in the land, and subduing everything to utility and 
commonplace. Avoid all towns and cities of white clapboard 
palaces, and Grecian temples, studded with "Academies," 
" Seminaries," and " Institutes," which glisten along our bays 
and rivers; these are the strongholds of Yankee usurpation; 
but if haply you light upon some rough, rambling road, wind- 
ing between stone fences, gray with moss, and overgrown with 
elder, poke-berry, mullen, and sweetbriar, with here and there 
a low red-roofed, whitewashed farmhouse, cowering among 
apple and cherry trees ; an old stone church, with elms, wil- 
lows, and buttonwoocls as old-looking as itself, and tombstones 
almost buried in their own graves ; and, peradventure, a small 
log school-house, at a cross-road, where the English is still 
taught with a thickness of the tongue, instead of a twang of 
the nose ; should you, I say, light upon such a neighborhood 
Air. Editor, you may thank your stars that you have found one 
of the lingering haunts of poetry and romance. 

Your correspondent, sir, has touched upon that sublime and 
affecting feature in the history of Communipaw, the retreat of 
the patriotic band of Nederlanders, led by Van Home, whom 
he justly terms the Pelayo of the New Netherlands. He has 
given you a picture of the manner in which they ensconced 



CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 465 

themselves in the " House of the Four Chimnies," and awaited 
with heroic patience and perse verence the day that should see 
the flag of the Hogen Mogens once more floating on the fort 
of New Amsterdam. 

Your correspondent, sir, has but given you a glimpse over 
the threshold ; I will now let you into the heart of the mystery 
of this most mysterious and eventful village. Yes, sir, I will 

now 

" unclasp a secret book ; 
And to your quick conceiving discontents, 
I '11 read you matter deep and dangerous, 
- As full of peril and adventurous spirit, 
As to o'er walk a current, roaring loud. 
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear." 

Sir, it is one of the most beautiful and interesting facts con- 
nected with the history of Communipaw, that the early feeling 
of resistance to foreign rule, alluded to by your correspondent, 
is still kept up. Yes, sir, a settled, secret, and determined 
conspiracy has been going on for generations among this in- 
domitable people, the descendants of the refugees from New 
Amsterdam, the object of which is to redeem their ancient 
seat of empire, and to drive the losel Yankees out of the land. 

Communipaw, it is true, has the glory of originating this con- 
spiracy ; and it was hatched and reared in the " House of the 
Four Chimnies " ; but it has spread far and wide over ancient 
Pavonia, surmounted the heights of Bergen, Hoboken, and 
Weehawk, crept up along the banks of the Passaic and the 
Hackensack, until it pervades the w»hole chivalry of the coun- 
try, from Tappan Slote, in the North, to Piscataway, in the 
South, including the pugnacious village of Railway, more hero- 
ically denominated Spank-town. 

Throughout all these regions, a great "in-and-in confed 



466 CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

eracy " prevails ; that is to say, a confederacy among the Dutch 
families, by dint of diligent and exclusive intermarriage, to 
keep the race pure, and to multiply. If ever, Mr. Editor, in 
the course of your travels between Spank-town and Tappan 
Slote, you should see a cosey, low-eaved farmhouse, teeming 
with sturdy, broad-built little urchins, you may set it down as 
one of the breeding places of this grand secret confederacy, 
stocked with the embryo deliverers of New Amsterdam. 

Another step in the progress of this patriotic conspiracy is 
the establishment, in various places within the ancient bound- 
aries of the Nieuw-Nederlands, of secret, or rather mysterious, 
associations, composed of the genuine sons of the Nederlanders, 
with the ostensible object of keeping up the memory of old 
times and customs, but with the real object of promoting the 
views of this dark and mighty plot, and extending its ramifi- 
cations throughout the land. 

Sir, I am descended from a long line of genuine Nederland- 
ers, who, though they remained in the city of New Amsterdam 
after the conquest, and throughout the usurpation, have never 
in their hearts been able to tolerate the yoke imposed upon 
them. My worthy father, who was one of the last of the cocked 
hats, had a little knot of cronies, of his own stamp, who used 
to meet in our wainscoted parlor, round a nut-wood fire, talk 
over old times, when the city was ruled by its native burgo- 
masters, and groan over the monopoly of all places of power 
and profit by the Yankees. I well recollect the effect upon 
this worthy little conclave vvhen the Yankees first instituted 
their New-England Society, held their "national festival," 
toasted their "father-land," and sang: their foreign songs of 

is is o 

triumph within the very precincts of our ancient metropolis. 
Sir, from that day, my father held the smell of codfish and 



CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 467 

potatoes, and the sight of pumpkin-pie, in utter abomination ; 
and whenever the annual dinner of the New-England Society 
came round, it was a sore anniversary for his children. He 
got up in an ill humor, grumbled and growled throughout the 
day, and not one of us went to bed that night without having 
had his jacket well trounced, to the tune of the " The Pilgrim 
Fathers.*' 

You may judge, then, Mr. Editor, of the exaltation of all 
true patriots of this stamp, when the Society of Saint Nicholas 
was set up among us, and intrepidly established, cheek by 
jole, alongside of the society of the invaders. Never shall I 
forget the effect upon my father and his little knot of brotner 
groaners, when tidings were brought them that the ancient 
banner of the Manhattoes was actually floating from the win- 
dow of the City Hotel. Sir, they nearly jumped out of their 
silver-buckled shoes for joy. They took down their cocked 
hats from the pegs on which they had hanged them, as the 
Israelites of yore hung their harps upon the willows, in token 
of bondage, clapped them resolutely once more upon their 
heads, and cocked them in the face of every Yankee they met 
on the way to the banqueting-room. 

The institution of this society was hailed with transport 
throughout the whole extent of the New Netherlands ; being 
considered a secret foothold gained in New Amsterdam, and 
a flattering presage of future triumph. Whenever that society 
holds its annual feast, a sympathetic hilarity prevails through- 
out the land ; ancient Pavonia sends over its contributions of 
cabbages and oysters ; the " House of the Four Chimnies " 
is splendidly illuminated, and the traditional song of Saint 
Nicholas, the mystic bond of union and conspiracy, is chanted 
with closed doors, in every genuine Dutch family. 



468 CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

I have thus, I trust, Mr. Editor, opened your eyes to some 
of the grand moral, poetical, and political phenomena with 
which you are surrounded. You will now be able to read the 
" signs of the times." You will now understand what is meant 
by those " Knickerbocker Halls," and " Knickerbocker Hotels," 
and " Knickerbocker Lunches," that are daily springing up in 
our city, and what all these " Knickerbocker Omnibuses " are 
driving at. You will see in them so many clouds before a 
storm ; so many mysterious but sublime intimations of the 
gathering vengeance of a great though oppressed people. 
Above all, you will now contemplate our bay and its porten- 
tous borders with proper feelings of awe and admiration. Talk 
of the Bay of Naples, and its volcanic mountain ! Why, sir, 
little Communipaw, sleeping among its cabbage-gardens, " quiet 
as gunpowder," yet with this tremendous conspiracy brewing 
in its bosom, is an object ten times as sublime (in a moral 
point of view, mark me,) as Vesuvius in repose, though charged 
with lava and brimstone, and ready for an eruption. 

Let me advert to a circumstance connected with this theme, 
which cannot but be appreciated by every heart of sensibility. 
You must have remarked, Mr. Editor, on summer evenings, 
and on Sunday afternoons, certain grave, primitive-looking 
personages, walking the Battery, in close confabulation, with 
their canes behind their backs, and ever and anon turning a 
wistful gaze toward the Jersey shore. These, sir, are the sons 
of Saint Nicholas, the genuine Nederlanders ; who regard 
Communipaw with pious reverence, not merely as the pro- 
genitor, but the destined regenerator, of this great metropolis. 
Yes, sir ; they are looking with longing eyes to the green 
marshes of ancient Pavonia, as did the poor conquered Span- 
iards of yore toward the stern mountains of Asturias, won- 



CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 469 

dering whether the clay of deliverance is at hand. Many is the 
time, when, in my boyhood, I have walked with my father and 
his confidential compeers on the Battery, and listened to their 
calculations and conjectures, and observed the points of their 
sharp cocked hats evermore turned toward Pavonia. Nay, 
sir, I am convinced that at this moment, if I were to take 
clown the cocked hat of my lamented father from the peg on 
which it has hung for years, and w r ere to carry it to the Bat- 
tery, its centre point, true as the needle to the pole, would turn 
to Communipaw. 

Mr. Editor, the great historic drama of New Amsterdam is 
but half acted. The reigns of Walter the Doubter, William 
the Testy, and Peter the Headstrong, with the rise, progress, 
and decline of the Dutch dynasty, are but so many parts of 
the main action, the triumphant catastrophe of which is yet 
to come. Yes, sir ! the deliverance of the New Nederlands 
from Yankee domination will eclipse the far-famed redemp- 
tion of Spain from the Moors, and the oft-sung Conquest of 
Granada will fade before the chivalrous triumph of New Am- 
sterdam. Would that Peter Stuyvesant could rise from his 
grave to witness that day ! 

Your humble servant, 

Roloff Van Ripper. 

P. S. — Just as I had concluded the foregoing epistle, I re- 
ceived a piece of intelligence which makes me tremble for the 
fate of Communipaw. I fear, Mr. Editor, the grand conspiracy 
is in danger of being countermined and counteracted by those 
all- pervading and indefatigable Yankees. Would you think 
it, sir ! one of them has actually effected an entry in the place 
by covered way ; or, in other words, under cover of the petti- 
20* 



470 CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 

coats. Finding every other mode ineffectual, he secretly laid 
siege to a Dutch heiress, who owns a great cabbage-garden in 
her own right. Being a smooth-tongued varlet, he easily pre- 
vailed on her to elope with him, and they were privately mar- 
ried at Spank -town ! The first notice the good people of 
Communipaw had of this awful event, was a lithographed map 
of the cabbage-garden laid out in town lots, and advertised for 
sale ! On the night of the wedding, the main weathercock 
of the " House of the Four Chimnies " was carried away in a 
whirlwind ! The greatest consternation reigns throughout the 
village ! 



LETTER FROM GRANADA. 

To the Editor of " The Knickerbocker " : 

Sir, — The following letter was scribbled to a friend dur» 
ing my sojourn in the Alhambra, in 1828. As it presents 
scenes and impressions noted down at the time, I venture 
to oifer it for the consideration of your readers. Should it 
prove acceptable, I may from time to time give other letters, 
written in the course of my various ramblings, and which 
have been kindly restored to me by my friends. 

Yours, a. c. 



Granada, 1828. 
My Dear : 

Religious festivals furnish, in all Catholic countries, occa- 
sions of popular pageant and recreation ; but in none more 
so than in Spain, where the great end of religion seems to 
be to create holidays and ceremonials. For two days past, 
Granada has been in a gay turmoil with the great annual fete 
of Corpus Christi. This most eventful and romantic city, 
as you well know, has ever been the rallying point of a 
mountainous region, studded with small towns and villages. 
Hither, during the time that Granada was the splendid capital 
of a Moorish kingdom, the Moslem youth repaired from all 
points to participate in chivalrous festivities ; and hither the 
Spanish populace, at the present day, throng from all parts 
of the surrounding country, to attend the festivals of the 
Church. 



472 LETTER FROM GRANADA. 

As the populace like to enjoy things from the very com- 
mencement, the stir of Corpus Christi began in Granada on 
the preceding evening. Before dark, the gates of the city 
were thronged with the picturesque peasantry from the moun- 
tain villages, and the brown laborers from the Vega, or vast 
fertile plain. As the evening advanced, the Vivarambla thick- 
ened and swarmed with a motley multitude. This is the great 
square in the centre of the city, famous for tilts and tourneys 
during the times of Moorish domination, and incessantly 
mentioned in all the old Moorish ballads of love and chivalry. 
For several days the hammer had resounded throughout this 
square. A gallery of wood had been erected all round it, 
forming a covered way for the grand procession of Corpus 
Christi. On this eve of the ceremonial, this gallery was a 
fashionable promenade. It was brilliantly illuminated, bands 
of music were stationed in balconies on the four sides of the 
square, and all the fashion and beauty of Granada, and all 
its population that could boast a little finery of apparel, to- 
gether with the majos and majas, the beaux and belles of the 
villages, in their gay Andalusian costumes, thronged this 
covered walk, anxious to see and to be seen. As to the 
sturdy peasantry of the Vega, and such of the mountaineers 
as did not pretend to display, but were content with hearty 
enjoyment, they swarmed in the centre of the square ; some 
in groups, listening to the guitar and the traditional ballad ; 
some dancing their favorite bolero ; some seated on the ground, 
making a merry though frugal supper; and some stretched 
out for their night's repose. 

The gay crowd of the gallery dispersed gradually toward 
midnight ; but the centre of the square resembled the bivouac 
of an army; for hundreds of the peasantry — men, women, 



LETTER FROM GRANADA. 473 

and children — passed the night there, sleeping soundly on the 
bare earth, under the open canopy of heaven. A summer's 
night requires no shelter in this genial climate ; and with 
a great part of the hardy peasantry of Spain, a bed is a super- 
fluity which many of them never enjoy, and which they affect 
to despise. The common Spaniard spreads out his manta, or 
mule-cloth, or wraps himself in his cloak, and lies on the 
ground, with his saddle for a pillow. 

The next morning I revisited the square at sunrise. It 
was still strewed with groups of sleepers ; some were repos- 
ing from the dance and revel of the evening ; others had left 
their villages after work, on the preceding day, and having 
trudged on foot the greater part of the night, were taking 
a sound sleep to freshen them for the festivities of the day. 
Numbers from the mountains, and the remote villages of the 
plain, who had set out in the night, continued to arrive, with 
their wives and children. All were in high spirits ; greeting 
each other, and exchanging jokes and pleasantries. The gay 
tumult thickened as the day advanced. Now came pouring 
in at the city gates, and parading through the streets, the 
deputations from the various villages, destined to swell the 
grand procession. These village deputations were headed 
by their priests, bearing their respective crosses and banners, 
and images of the blessed Virgin, and of patron saints ; all 
which were matters of great rivalship and jealousy among 
the peasantry. It was like the chivalrous gatherings of 
ancient days, when each town and village sent its chiefs, and 
warriors, and standards, to defend the capital, or grace its 
festivities. 

At length all these various detachments congregated into 
one grand pageant, which slowly paraded round the Viva- 



174 LETTER FROM GRANADA. 

rambla, and through the principal streets, where every win- 
dow and balcony was hung with tapestry. In this procession 
were all the religious orders, the civil and military authorities, 
and the chief people of the parishes and villages : every 
church and convent had contributed its banners, its images, 
its relics, and poured forth its wealth, for the occasion. In 
the centre of the procession walked the archbishop, under 
a damask canopy, and surrounded by inferior dignitaries and 
their dependents. The whole moved to the swell and ca- 
dence of numerous bands of music, and, passing through the 
midst of a countless yet silent multitude, proceeded onward 
to the cathedral. 

I could not but be struck with the changes of times and 
customs, as I saw this monkish pageant passing through the 
Vivarambla, the ancient seat of modern pomp and chivalry. 
The contrast was indeed forced upon the mind by the decora- 
tions of the square. The whole front of the wooden gallery 
erected for the procession, extending several hundred feet, 
was faced with canvas, on which some humble though pat- 
riotic artist had painted, by contract, a series of the prin- 
cipal scenes and exploits of the Conquest, as recorded in 
chronicle and romance. It is thus the romantic legends of 
Granada mingle themselves with everything, and are kept 
fresh in the public mind. 

Another great festival at Granada, answering in its popular 
character to our Fourth of July, is El Dia de la Toma, " The 
day of the Capture ; " that is to say, the anniversary of the 
capture of the city by Ferdinand and Isabella. On this day 
all Granada is abandoned to revelry. The alarm-bell on the 
Terre de la Campana, or watchtower of the Alhambra, keeps 
up a clangor from morn till night ; and happy is the damsel 



LETTER PROM GRANADA. 475 

that can ring that bell ; it is a charm to secure a husband in 
the course of the year. 

The sound, which can be heard over the whole Vega, and 
to the top of the mountains, summons the peasantry to the 
festivities. Throughout the day the Alhambra is thrown open 
to the public. The halls and courts of the Moorish monarchs 
resound with the guitar and Castanet, and gay groups, in the 
fanciful dresses of Andalusia, perform those popular dances 
which they have inherited from the Moors. 

In the mean time a grand procession moves througn the 
city. The banner of Ferdinand and Isabella, that precious 
relic of the Conquest, is brought forth from its depository, 
and borne by the Alferez Mayor, or grand standard-bearer, 
through the principal streets. The portable camp-altar, which 
was carried about with them in all their campaigns, is trans- 
ported into the chapel royal, and placed before their sepul- 
chre, where their effigies lie in monumental marble. The 
procession fills the chapel. High mass is performed in memory 
of the Conquest ; and at a certain part of the ceremony the 
Alferez Mayor puts on his hat and waves the standard above 
the tomb of the conquerors. 

A more whimsical memorial of the Conquest is exhibited 
on the same evening at the theatre, where a popular drama 
is performed, entitled "Ave Maria." This turns on the oft- 
sung achievement of Hernando del Pulgar, surnamed M de 
las Hazanas, " He of the Exploits," the favorite hero of the 
populace of Granada. 

During the time that Ferdinand and Isabella besieged the 
city, the young Moorish and Spanish knights vied with each 
other in extravagant bravados. On one occasion Hernando 
del Pulgar, at the head of a handful of youthful followers, 



476 LETTER FROM GRANADA. 

made a clash into Granada at the dead of the night, nailed 
the inscription of Ave Maria, with his dagger, to the gate 
of the principal mosque, as a token of having consecrated 
it to the Virgin, and effected his retreat in safety. 

While the Moorish cavaliers admired this daring exploit, 
they felt bound to revenge it. On the following day, there- 
fore, Tarfe, one of the stoutest of the infidel warriors, paraded 
in front of the Christian army, dragging the sacred inscrip- 
tion of Ave Maria at his horse's tail. The cause of the 
Virgin was eagerly vindicated by Garcilaso de la Vega, who 
slew the Moor in single combat, and elevated the inscription 
of Ave Maria, in devotion and triumph, at the end of his 
lance. 

The drama founded on this exploit is prodigiously popular 
with the common people. Although it has been acted tim& 
out of mind, and the people have seen it repeatedly, it never 
fails to draw crowds, and so completely to engross the feel- 
ings of the audience, as to have almost the effect on them 
of reality. When their favorite Pulgar strides about with 
many a mouthy speech, in the very midst of the Moorish 
capital, he is cheered with enthusiastic bravos ; and when 
he nails the tablet of Ave Maria to the door of the mosque, 
the theatre absolutely shakes with shouts and thunders of 
applause. On the other hand, the actors who play the part 
of the Moors have to bear the brunt of the temporary in- 
dignation of their auditors ; and when the infidel Tarfe 
plucks down the tablet to tie it to his horse's tail, many of 
the people absolutely rise in fury, and are ready to jump 
upon the stage to revenge this insult to the Virgin. 

Beside this annual festival at the capital, almost every village 
of the Vega and the mountains has its own anniversary. 



LETTER FROM GRANADA. 477 

wherein its own deliverance from the Moorish yoke is cele- 
brated with uncouth ceremony and rustic pomp. 

On these occasions, a kind of resurrection takes place of 
ancient Spanish dresses and armor, — great two-handed swords, 
ponderous arquebusses, with match-locks, and other weapons 
and accoutrements, once the equipments of the village chiv- 
alry, and treasured up from generation to generation since 
the time of the Conquest. In these hereditary and historical 
garbs, some of the most sturdy of the villagers array themselves 
as champions of the faith, while its ancient opponents are re- 
presented by another band of villagers, dressed up as Moorish 
warriors. A tent is pitched in the public square of the vil- 
lage, within which is an altar and an image of the Virgin. 
The Spanish warriors approach to perform their devotions 
at this shrine, but are opposed by the infidels Moslems, wh« 
surround the tent. A mock-fight succeeds, in the course 
of which the combatants sometimes forget that they are 
merely playing a part, and exchange dry blows of grievous 
weight ; the fictitious Moors, especially, are apt to bear away 
pretty evident marks of the pious zeal of their antagonists. 
The contest, however, invariably terminates in favor of the 
good cause. The Moors are defeated and taken prisoners. 
The image of the Virgin, rescued from thraldom, is elevated 
in triumph ; and a grand procession succeeds, in which the 
Spanish conquerors figure with great vainglory and applause, 
and their captives are led in chains, to the infinite delight 
and edification of the populace. These annual festivals are 
the delight of the villagers, who expend considerable sums 
in their celebration. In some villages they are occasionally 
obliged to suspend them for want of funds ; but when times 
grov/ better, or they have been enabled to save money for 



478 LETTER FROM GRANADA. 

the purpose, they are revived with all their grotesque pomp 
and extravagance. 

To recur to the exploit of Hernando del Pulgar. How- 
ever extravagant and fabulous it may seem, it is authenticated 
by certain traditional usages, and shows the vainglorious dar- 
ing that prevailed between the youthful warriors of both 
nations, in that romantic war. The mosque thus consecrated 
to the Virgin was made the cathedral of the city after the 
Conquest ; and there is a painting of the Virgin beside the 
royal chapel, which was put there by Hernando del Pulgar. 
The lineal representative of the hair-brained cavalier has the 
right, to this day, to enter the church, on certain occasions, 
on horseback, to sit within the choir, and to put on his hat 
at the elevation of the host, though these privileges have 
often been obstinately contested by the clergy. 

The present lineal representative of Hernando del Pulgar 
is the Marquis de Salar, whom I have met occasionally in 
society. He is a young man of agreeable appearance and 
manners, and his bright black eyes would give indication of 
his inheriting the fire of his ancestor. When the paintings 
were put up in the Vivarambla, illustrating the scenes of the 
Conquest, an old gray-headed family servant of the Pulgars 
was so delighted with those which related to the family hero, 
that he absolutely shed tears, and hurrying home to the Mar- 
quis, urged him to hasten and behold the family trophies. 
The sudden zeal of the old man provoked the mirth of his 
young master; upon which, turning to the brother of the 
Marquis, with that freedom allowed to family servants in 
Spain, " Come, Senor," cried he ; " you are mare grave and 
considerate than your brother; come and see your ancestor 
in all his glory!" 



LETTER FROM GRANADA. 4? 9 

Within two or three years after the above letter was writ- 
ten, the Marquis de Salar was married to the beautiful daugh- 
ter of the Count , mentioned by the author in his anec- 
dotes of the Alhambra. The match was very agreeable to 
all parties, and the nuptials were celebrated with great fes- 
tivity. 



THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 

The Catskill, Katskill, or Cat River Mountains derived their 
name, in the time of the Dutch domination, from the cata- 
mounts by which they were infested ; and which, with the bear, 
the wolf, and the deer, are still to be found in some of their 
most difficult recesses. The interior of these mountains is in 
the highest degree wild and romantic. Here are rocky preci- 
pices mantled with primeval forests ; deep gorges walled in by 
beetling cliffs, with torrents tumbling as it were from the sky ; 
and savage glens rarely trodden excepting by the hunter. 
TTith all this internal rudeness, the aspect of these mountains 
towards the Hudson at times is eminently bland and beautiful, 
sloping down into a country softened by cultivation, and bear- 
ing much of the rich character of Italian scenery about the 
skirts of the Apennines. 

The Catskills form an advanced post or lateral spur of the 
great Alleghanian or Appalachian system of mountains which 
sweeps through the interior of our continent, from southwest to 
northeast, from Alabama to the extremity of Maine, for nearly 
fourteen hundred miles, belting the whole of our original con- 
federacy, and rivalling our great system of lakes in extent and 
grandeur. Its vast ramifications comprise a number of paral- 
lel chains and lateral groups ; such as the Cumberland Moun- 
tains, the Blue Ridge, the Alleghanies, the Delaware and 
Lehigh, the Highlands of the Hudson, the Green Mountains 
of Vermont, and the White Mountains of New Hampshire. 



THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 481 

In many of these vast ranges or sierras, Nature still reigns in 
indomitable wildness; their rocky ridges, their rugged clefts 
and defiles, teem with magnificent vegetation. 

Here are locked up mighty forests that have never been in- 
vaded by the axe ; deep umbrageous valleys where the virgin 
soil has never been outraged by the plough ; bright streams 
flowing in untasked idleness, unburdened by commerce, un- 
checked by the mill-dam. This mountain zone is in fact the 
great poetical region of our country ; resisting, like the tribes 
which once inhabited it, the taming hand of cultivation ; and 
maintaining a hallowed ground for fancy and the Muses. It is 
a magnificent and all-pervading feature, that might have given 
our country a name, and a poetical one, had not the all-control- 
ling powers of commonplace determined otherwise. 

The Catskill Mountains, as I have observed, maintain all the 
internal wildness of the labyrinth of mountains with which 
they are connected. Their detached position, overlooking a 
wide lowland region, with the majestic Hudson rolling through 
it, has given them a distinct character, and rendered them at 
all times a rallying point for romance and fable. Much of the 
fanciful associations with which they have been clothed may be 
owing to their being peculiarly subject to those beautiful at- 
mospherical effects which constitute one of the great charms 
of Hudson River scenery. To me they have ever been the 
fairy region of the Hudson. I speak, however, from early im- 
pressions, made in the happy days of boyhood, when all the 
world had a tinge of fairy land. I shall never forget my first 
view of these mountains. It was in the course of a voyage up 
the Hudson, in the good old times before steamboats and rail- 
roads had driven all poetry and romance out of travel. A voy- 
age up the Hudson in those days was equal to a voyage to 



482 THE CATS KILL MOUNTAINS. 

Europe at present, and cost almost as much time ; but we en- 
joyed the river then ; we relished it as we did our wine, sip by 
sip, not, as at present, gulping all down at a draught, without 
tasting it. My whole voyage up the Hudson was full of won- 
der and romance. I was a lively boy, somewhat imaginative, 
of easy faith, and prone to relish everything that partook of the 
marvellous. Among the passengers on board of the sloop was 
a veteran Indian trader, on his way to the lakes to traffic with 
the natives. He had discovered my propensity, and amused 
himself throughout the voyage by telling me Indian legends 
and grotesque stories about every noted place on the river, — 
such as Spuyten Devil Creek, the Tappan Sea, the Devil's 
Dans Kammer, and other hobgoblin places. The Catskill 
Mountains especially called forth a host of fanciful traditions. 
We were all day slowly tiding along in sight of them, so that 
he had full time to weave his whimsical narratives. In these 
mountains, he told me, according to Indian belief, was kept the 
great treasury of storm and sunshine for the region of the 
Hudson. An old squaw spirit had charge of it, who dwelt on 
the highest peak of the mountain. Here she kept Day and 
Night shut up in her wigwam, letting out only one of them at 
a time. She made new moons every month, and hung them 
up in the sky, cutting up the old ones into stars. The great 
Manitou, or master-spirit, employed her to manufacture clouds ; 
sometimes she wove them out of cobwebs, gossamers, and 
morning dew, and sent them off flake after flake, to float in the 
air and give light summer showers. Sometimes she would 
brew up black thunder-storms, and send down drenching rains 
to swell the streams and sweep everything away. He had 
many stories, also, about mischievous spirits who infested the 
mountains in the shape of animals, and played all kinds of 



THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 483 

pranks upon Indian hunters, decoying them into quagmires 
and morasses, or to the brinks of torrents and precipices. All 
these were doled out to me as I lay on the deck throughout a 
long summer's day, gazing upon these mountains, the ever- 
changing shapes and hues of which appeared to realize the 
magical influences in question. Sometimes they seemed to 
approach ; at others to recede ; during the heat of the day 
they almost melted into a sultry haze ; as the day declined they 
deepened in tone ; their summits were brightened by the last 
rays of the sun, and later in the evening their whole outline 
was printed in deep purple against an amber sky. As I be- 
held them thus shifting continually before my eye, and listened 
to the marvellous legends of the trader, a host of fanciful no- 
tions concerning them was conjured into my brain, which have 
haunted it ever since. 

As to the Indian superstitions concerning the treasury of 
storms and sunshine, and the cloud-weaving spirits, they may 
have been suggested by the atmospherical phenomena of these 
mountains, the clouds which gather round their summits, and 
the thousand aerial effects which indicate the changes of 
weather over a great extent of country. They are epitomes 
of our variable climate, and are stamped with all its vicissi- 
tudes. And here let me say a word in favor of those vicissi- 
tudes which are too often made the subject of exclusive re- 
pining. If they annoy us occasionally by changes from hot to 
cold, from wet to dry, they give us one of the most beautiful 
climates in the world. They give us the brilliant sunshine of 
the south of Europe, with the fresh verdure of the north. 
They float our summer sky with clouds of gorgeous tints or 
fleecy whiteness, and send down cooling showers to refresh the 
panting earth and keep it green. Our seasons are all poetical 



184 THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 

the phenomena of our heavens are full of sublimity and beauty 
Winter with us has none of its proverbial gloom. It may have 
its howling winds, and thrilling frosts, and whirling snow- 
storms ; but it has also its long intervals of cloudless sunshine, 
when the snow-clad earth gives redoubled brightness to the 
day : when at night the stars beam with intensest lustre, or the 
moon floods the whole landscape with her most limpid radi- 
ance ; — and then the joyous outbreak of our spring, bursting 
at once into leaf and blossom, redundant with vegetation and 
vociferous with life ! — And the splendors of our summer, — its 
morning voluptuousness and evening glory ; its airy palaces of 
sun-gilt clouds piled up in a deep azure sky, and its gusts of 
tempest of almost tropical grandeur, when the forked light- 
ning and the bellowing thunder volley from the battlements of 
heaven and shake the sultry atmosphere, — and the sublime 
melancholy of our autumn, magnificent in its decay, withering 
down the pomp and pride of a woodland country, yet reflect- 
ing back from its yellow forests the golden serenity of the sky ! 
— surely we may say that in our climate, " The heavens de- 
clare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth forth his 
handiwork : day unto day uttereth speech ; and night unto 
night showeth knowledge." 

A word more concerning the Catskills. It is not the Indians 
only to whom they have been a kind of wonder-land. In the 
early times of the Dutch dynasty we find them themes of golden 
speculation among even the sages of New Amsterdam. Dur- 
ing the administration of Wilhelmus Kieft there was a meeting 
between the Director of the New Netherlands and the chiefs 
of the Mohawk nation to conclude a treaty of peace. On this 
occasion the Director was accompanied by Mynheer Adrian 
Van der Donk, Doctor of Laws, and subsequently historian of 



THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 485 

the colony. The Indian chiefs, as usual, painted and decorated 
themselves on the ceremony. One of them in so doing made 
use of a pigment, the weight and shining appearance of which 
attracted the notice of Keift and his learned companion, who 
suspected it to be ore. They procured a lump of it, and took 
it back with them to New Amsterdam. Here it was submitted 
to the inspection of Johannes de la Montagne, an eminent 
Huguenot doctor of medicine, one of the counsellors of the 
New Netherlands. The supposed ore was forthwith put in a 
crucible and assayed, and to the great exultation of the junto 
yielded two pieces of gold, worth about three guilders. This 
golden discovery was kept a profound secret. As soon as the 
treaty of peace was adjusted with the Mohawks, William Kieft 
sent a trusty officer and a party of men under guidance of an 
Indian, who undertook to conduct them to the place whence the 
ore had been found. We have no account of this gold-hunting 
expedition, nor of its whereabouts, excepting that it was some- 
where on the Catskill Mountains. The exploring party brought 
back a bucketful of ore. Like the former specimen, it was 
submitted to the crucible of De la Montagne, and was equally 
productive of gold. All this we have on the authority of Doc- 
tor Van der Donk, who was an eye-witness of the process and 
its result, and records the whole in his " Description of the 
New Netherlands." 

William Kieft now dispatched a confidential agent, one Arent 
Corsen, to convey a sackful of the precious ore to Holland. 
Corsen embarked at New Haven in a British vessel bound to 
England, whence he was to cross to Rotterdam. The ship set 
sail about Christmas, but never reached her port. All on board 
perished. 

In 1647, when the redoubtable Petrus Stuyvesant took com- 

21 



486 THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 

mand of the New Netherlands, William Kieft embarked, on his 
return to Holland, provided with further specimens of the Cats- 
kill Mountain ore, from which he doubtless indulged golden 
anticipations. A similar fate attended him with that which had 
befallen his agent. The ship in which he had embarked was 
cast away, and he and his treasure were swallowed in the waves. 
Here closes the golden legend of the Catskills ; but another 
one of similar import succeeds. In 1 649, about two years after 
the shipwreck of Wilhelmus Kieft, there was again a rumor of 
precious metals in these mountains. Mynheer Brant Arent 
Van Slechtenhorst, agent of the Patroon of Rensselaerswyck, 
had purchased in behalf of the Patroon a tract of the Catskill 
lands, and leased it out in farms. A Dutch lass in the house- 
hold of one of the farmers found one day a glittering sub- 
stance, which, on being examined, was pronounced silver ore. 
Brant Van Slechtenhorst forthwith sent his son from Rensse- 
laerswyck to explore the mountains in quest of the supposed 
mines. The young man put up in the farmer's house, which 
had recently been erected on the margin of a mountain stream. 
Scarcely was he housed when a furious storm burst forth on the 
mountains. The thunders rolled, the lightnings flashed, the 
rain came down in cataracts ; the stream was suddenly swollen 
to a furious torrent thirty feet deep ; the farm-house and all its 
contents were swept away, and it was only by dint of excellent 
swimming that young Slechtenhorst saved his own life and the 
lives of his horses. Shortly after this a feud broke out be- 
tween Peter Stuyvesant and the Patroon of Rensselaerswyck 
on account of the right and title to the Catskill Mountains, in 
the course of which the elder Slechtenhorst was taken captive 
by the Potentate of the New Netherlands and thrown in 
prison at New Amsterdam. 



THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. 487 

We have met with no record of any further attempt to get at 
the treasures of the Catskills. Adventurers may have been 
discouraged by the ill-luck which appeared to attend all who 
meddled with them, as if they were under the guardian keep 
of the same spirits or goblins who once haunted the moun- 
tains and ruled over the weather. That gold and silver ore 
was actually procured from these mountains in days of yore, 
we have historical evidence to prove, and the recorded word of 
Adrian Van der Donk, a man of weight, who was an eye-wit- 
ness. If gold and silver were once to be found there, they 
must be there at present. It remains to be seen, in these gold- 
hunting days, whether the quest will be renewed, and some 
daring adventurer, fired with a true Californian spirit, will pen- 
etrate the mysteries of these mountains, and open a golden 
region on the borders of the Hudson. 



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